OF  THE 

U N IVLRSITY 
Of  ILLINOIS 


823 

8>d<©d 


THE  DEMONIAC 


A NOVEL. 


By  WALTER  BESANT, 

Author  of  “ Armor elle  of  Lyonessef  “ Herr  Paulas  Etc, 


THE  USURY  OF  THE 

3HN  2 8 1933 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILUNOIS. 


NEW  yore: 

F.  M.  LUPTON,  PUBLISHER, 
106  and  108  Reade  Street. 


li-;  nmf 


82  3 

B4-6J 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


i 


t 


<o 


CHAPTER  I. 

HOW  THE  THING  CAME. 

of  half  a dozen  men  sat  or  lounged  about 
0^  the  room.  They  had  been  sitting  there  all  the  evening. 
^ Some  smoked  cigarettes  more  ruinous  to  the  nerves  than 
opium;  some  took  their  tobacco  in  the  ancient  manner  by 
means  of  a pipe.  On  the  table  stood  two  or  three  bottles 
of  apollinaris  and  a bottle  of  whisky,  newly  opened  for  a 
young  profligate,  who  still  dared  to  take  it  with  his  apol- 
lonaris  in  spite  of  public  opinion.  These  men  constituted 
the  best  set  in  the  college;  that  was  acknowledged  by 
themselves.  All  were  reading  men  and  all  good  men. 
They  talked  of  literature,  art,  music,  and  poetry,  with 
equal  readiness,  and  always  with  that  fine  breadth  of 
handling  and  those  vigorous,  certain  strokes  which  belong 
especially  to  their  time  of  life.  No  critic  so  unrelenting 
as  the  critic  of  twenty-one;  no  demand  for  style  more  ex- 
acting than  that  of  this  critic.  We  lower  our  demands  as 
we  grow  older  and  perceive  that  they  are  impossible.  Just 
m the  same  way  we  start  with  the  belief  that  every  great 
man  is  a hero;  that  every  beautiful  woman  is  an  angel; 
that  everything  is  possible  to  our  own  intellect,  and  that 
life  is  long  enough  to  satisfy  all  our  desires— all,  all— even 
the  boundless  desires  of  youth. 

bo  they  talked,  these  young  men;  sometimes  they  were 
cynical,  as  some  young  men  love  to  be;  sometimes  the  en- 
thusiasm of  youth  flared  up,  and  they  were  carried  far 


^ A LITTLE 


824272 


4 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


above  the  region  of  the  cynic  into  the  pure,  sunlit  atmos- 
phere of  faith  and  hope.  And  when  the  college  clock 
struck  twelve  and  one  man  got  up  and  said  it  was  time  for 
bed,  everybody  felt  that  the  evening  had  passed  away  too 
quickly — as  is  indeed  the  case  with  every  beautiful  even- 
ing, and  more  especially  the  evening  of  life.  Then  the 
tenant  of  the  rooms  was  left  alone. 

His  name  was  George  Humphrey  Atheling.  He  lay 
back  in  his  easy-chair,  loath  to  go  to  bed.  The  college, 
when  the  footsteps  of  the  departing  men  ceased  upon  the 
stairs,  became  perfectly  quiet.  He  was  perhaps  after  a lit- 
tle while  the  only  man  in  it  out  of  bed.  The  candles  on 
the  table  were  burning  low. 

“ 1 suppose  I must  go,”  he  murmured,  with  a sigh. 

Yet  he  lingered.  He  got  up,  however,  and  looked  out 
of  the  window,  which  he  threw  open.  The  night  air— it 
was  early  in  the  month  of  May — blew  fresh  and  cold  upon 
his  cheek.  The  broad  lawns  of  the  Fellows  garden 
stretched  at  his  feet  in  the  moonlight,  the  two  great  wal- 
nut-trees casting  black  shadows.  Beyond  the  lawns  the 
flower-beds  and  shrubs  lay  massed  together  in  black  and 
white.  He  sighed  again,  being  a little  tired,  and  shut  the 
window. 

Yet  he  made  no  haste  to  get  into  bed.  For  some  rea- 
son or  other  he  did  not  want  to^go  to  bed;  the  thought  of 
bed  made  him  uneasy.  He  was  nervous  this  evening* 
He  had  become,  ..since  his  friends  left  him,  suddenly  and 
strangely  excited.  Yet  why?  There  was  absolutely  no 
reason  why  he  should  not  lie  down  at  once  and  go  to  sleep 
as  usual.  Nobody  slept  better  or  more  readily  than  this 
young  man.  Nothing  had  happened  to  excite  him  or 
make  him  nervous.  He  had  not  been  reading  too  hard. 
George  was  one  of  those  happily  constituted  persons  who 
never  do  read  too  hard.  He  had  not  been  smoking  too 
much— a couple  of  pipes  is  not  excessive.  He  had  cer- 
tainly not  been  drinking;  George  never  did  drink.  He 


HI.UIf.HIVf-f  ilM* 

THE  DEMOHIAC.  5 

had  not  been  gambling;  lie  never  did  gamble,  unless  you 
call  sixpenny  points  at  whist  gambling  for  a man  who  has 
seven  thousand  pounds  a year  of  his  own.  George  Atlie- 
ling  was  a perfectly  healthy,  steady  and  well-balanced 
young  man,  who  had  been  at  a school  where  the  masters 
are  said  to  have  the  greatest  possible  influence  and  the 
best  possible  influence  over  the  boys,  and  are  themselves, 
one  and  all,  as  remarkable  for  virtue  as  they  are  for  foot- 
ball. Thus  if  he  lacked  principle,  a thing  which  one 
would  be  sorry  to  affirm,  such  a young  man  would  make 
up  for  the  defect  by  a deeper  reverence  for  form.  Thus 
many  things  which  afford  the  greatest  gratification  to  the 
baser  sort  are  regarded  by  such  young  men  as  beneath  con- 
tempt, if  only  because  they  are  bad  form.  Almost  every- 
thing is  bad  form  which  pleases  the  great  mass  of  man- 
kind. Only  those  things  are  to  be  followed  which  advance 
the  development  or  cultivation  of  the  sou],  a thing  which 
every  young  man  must  continually  regard  with  jealousy. 
It  will  be  perceived  that  this  kind  of  teaching  may  very 
well  convert  a healthy  boy  into  a half-conscious  prig — in 
fact  it  very  often  does.  - This  is  its  weak  side.  On  the 
other  hand,  when  you  have  got  a strong  brain  to  deal  with 
there  is  no  better  way  of  beginning  the  world  than  to  start 
with  an  immense  respect  for  your  own  possibilities. 

George  Atheling,  owing  to  this  enormous  respect  for 
himself,  read  diligently  for  honors,  desiring  to  get  a first- 
• class.  It  is  always  good  for  a young  man  at  the  outset 
to  have  a first-class  behind  him;  it  shows  that  there  are 
possibilities  in  him.  For  the  same  reason  he  cultivated 
literature,  art,  and  music.  That  is  to  say,  as  regards  the 
latter  he  endeavored,  as  yet  with  small  success,  to  under- 
stand what  constitutes  a good  picture  and  what  a sonata 
should  suggest  and  teach.  In  some  athletics  he  was  good, 
especially  in  rowing;  he  spoke  at  the  union  rather  stiffly, 
but  after  careful  preparation  of  his  speech.  It  was  under- 
stood that  he  would  certainly  enter  upon  a political  career. 


6 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


and  his  friends  believed  that  he  would  quietly  step  to  the 
front  and  become  a great  statesman.  It  is  astonishing  to 
reflect  upon  the  magnificence  of  the  careers  prophesied  for 
certain  undergraduates  by  their  friends.  If  only  half  the 
greatness  were  really  to  come  off,  the  country  would  not 
be  big  enough  to  contain  all  its  great  men.  But  though 
events  do  not  exactly  come  off  as  they  were  prophesied, 
there  are,  as  in  every  other  condition  of  things,  compensa- 
tions. Many  of  the  men,  for  instance,  continue  to  believe 
in  their  own  possible  greatness,  and  are  thereby  made 
happy.  Fate  or  accident  has  prevented  them  from  receiv- 
ing the  world’s  acknowledgment  of  their  greatness;  they 
are  the  unknown  kings  of  men;  they  are  the  unappreciat- 
ed prophets. 

Had  George  Atheling  continued  in  the  line  of  life  which 
he  had  laid  down  for  himself  he  would  have  gained  his 
first-class;  he  would  have  been  called  to  the  Bar,  he  would 
have  entered  the  House  of  Commons,  and  then— but  one 
can  not  tell  what  might  have  happened  afterward.  Only 
one  thing  is  certain,  that  the  school  priggishness  would 
have  been  shaken  off  at  an  early  period.  A man  of  his 
bodily  strength  could  never  become  a prig.  Heard  one 
ever  of  a great,  strong  man  continuing  in  the  paths  of  the 
prig?  ' . > ’ • ; § 

But  he  did  not  continue  in  that  line  of  life.  A thing 
happened  to  him,  this  very  night,  which  was  destined  to 
change  his  line  of  life  altogether;*a  very  strange  and  terri- 
ble thing;  a thing  which  he  had  never  suspected,  dreaded 
or  anticipated;  a thing  of  which  he  had  never  heard. 

Understand,  to  begin  with,  that  there  were  no  premoni- 
tions, also  that  he  had  had  no  anxieties  of  any  kind;  that 
he  was  perfectly  happy  and  satisfied  with  himself,  his  lot 
and  his  expectations;  that  he  had  heaps  of  money,  that  he 
had  no  bad  brothers,  elder  or  younger;  that  he  had  no 
foolish  virgins  for  sisters,  that  he  was  twenty-one  years  of 
age,  that  he  was  perfectly  sound  and  strong— a goodly  and 


THE  DEMONIAC.  7 

a proper  young  man.  These  things  must  all  be  very  clear- 
ly understood. 

To  look  at  he  was  a very  fine  young  man.  He  stood 
over  six  feet  in  height,  and  for  breadth  of  shoulder,  depth 
of  chest,  solidity  of  Tegs  and  arms,  was  built  for  two  inches 
more  at  least.  Everything  about  him  was  modeled  in  a 
gigantic  scale;  his  hands  were  big,  his  fingers  long  and 
strong;  his  limbs  were  huge,  his  head  was  big,  his  features 
were  strong  and  distinct,  his  short  hair  curled  all  over  his 
head  for  the  very  strength  of  it.  He  rowed  five  in  the  col- 
lege boat,  and  had  refused  a place  in  the  'Varsity  trial 
eights. 

Nothing  wrong  about  this  young  man  at  all.  Nature 
had  fashioned  him  in  her  kindliest  mood;  nothing  at  all 
wrong.  Nature  is  so  seldom  in  a really  kind  mood.  For 
upon  one  she  bestows  an  asthma,  on  another  a gout,  on  a 
third  rheumatism,  on  a fourth  neuralgia — to  speak  only  of 
nervous  complaints  which  lie  dormant  for  many  years  and 
break  out  when  one  grows  older.  Another  she  afflicts  with 
short  sight,  partial  deafness,  a stammer,  a squint,  or  some 
other  little  defect  or  deformity  which  all  through  life  shall 
prohibit  perfect  enjoyment.  Others  she  endows  with  pov- 
erty coupled  with  ambition,  or  with  obscure  origin  coupled 
with  poor  cousins  in  multitudes,  or  stupidity  coupled  with 
rank  which  demands  great  parts.  This  young  man  she 
endowed  with  great  riches,  good  birth,  perfect  health  of 
body — so  far  as  he  himself  or  the  world  could  understand 
— a strong  brain,  industry  and  resolution  and  ambition. 
What  more  can  nature  possibly  do  for  any  man?  One 
thing  more.  She  can  make  him  of  those  who  speak  the 
great  English  language  and  belong  to  one  of  the  two  great 
English  nations.  And  this,  too,  nature  did  for  George 
Atheling. 

As  he  turned  from  the  window  his  eyes  fell  upon  an  un- 
opened letter  on  the  mantel-shelf.  He  took  it  and  glanced 
at  the  handwriting. 


3 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


44  It  is  from  Elinor/'  he  said,  and  tore  it  open. 

“ Dearest  George/'  it  said,  with  affectionate  famil- 
iarity, 44 1 think  that  I have  at  last  succeeded  in  overcom- 
ing all  scruples.  My  mother  has  given  her  consent  at  last. 
The  pater  has  never  really  objected.  I am  to  enter 
Newnham  in  October.  As  I shall  be  eighteen  in  Septem- 
ber I may  be  supposed  at  least  to  know  my  own  mind.  I 
am  getting  on  very  well  with  my  coach,  who  is  a delightful 
old  gentleman  and  a miracle  of  learning.  My  Latin  prose 
still  leaves  a good  deal  to  be  desired.  In  Greek  1 am  doing 
much  better.  I work  all  day  long,  except  for  my  two 
hours  of  exercise— which  everybody,  especially  my  coach — 
insists  upon  my  taking  every  day.  I ride  or  play  tennis. 
Oh!  I am  full  of  ambition  and  of  hopes.  We  shall  be 
undergraduates  together,  but  you  will  be  in  your  third 
year  while  I am  in  my  first.  You  will  look  down  upon 
me.  Never  mind. 

44  You  dear  old  boy,  I mean  to  get  my  first-class,  too. 
The  way  has  been  shown  by  other  women.  I will  be  a 
first-class  in  honors,  if  only  to  be  on  the  same  intellectual 
level  as  my  husband.  He  shall  not  be  able  to  talk  about 
things  of  which  I understand  nothing.  What  you  read  I 
will  read.  1 will  be  your  companion  and  your  equal.  I 
will  take  my  place  beside  you,  not  behind  you.  I could 
not  marry  a man  who  would  look  down  upon  me  from 
heights  which  I was  unable  to  reach,  any  more  than  1 
could  marry  a man  whose  mental  level  I could  easily  sur- 
mount. Not  so,  sir.  If  1 go  to  Newnham  it  is  that  1 
may  make  myself  worthy  of  one  who  is  to  become  a great 
man — a very  great  man.  Let  me  be  a very  great  woman 
if  he  is  to  take  my  hand.  Write  me  long  letters — quite 
long  letters — if  you  can  spare  the  time,  all  about  yourself. 
Good-bye,  you  dear  old  George. 

44  Affectionately,  Elinor." 

A very  pretty  letter:  it  went  straight  to  the  young 


THE  HEM  OKI  AC. 


9 


man’s  heart.  His  eyes  softened  as  he  read  it.  “ Newn- 
ham, Nellie.  We  shall  be  undergraduates  together.  But 
I am  afraid  they  won’t  let  me  ask  you  to  dine  in  Hall—” 
Not  much  love  in  the  letter,  but  enough.  When  young 
people  have  known  each  other  so  long — namely,  from 
childhood — and  have  dropped  into  an  understood  engage- 
ment almost  without  a word  spoken,  at  nineteen  and  six- 
teen, it  would  be  absurd  to  think  of  raptures  and  darts 
and  flames.  A calm  and  steady  flame,  at  best,  was  the 
love  of  these  two  young  people  for  each  other. 

“ Newnham!  Nellie  at  Newnham!  I wonder  how  often 
1 shall  be  able  to  see  her?”  George  put  the  letter  in  his 
pocket.  66  Nellie  a first-class  in  the  classical  tripos! 
Well,  why  not  Nell  as  well  as  any  other?” 

He  put  out  the  candles  and  went  into  his  bedroom. 
There  a strange  disquiet  seized  him;  his  heart  began  to 
beat;  he  shivered;  he  thought  he  must  have  taken  cold. 
He  hastened  to  seek  the  friendly  embrace  of  the  blankets. 

Now,  if  he  had  known  what  was  going  to  happen  he 
would  have  sat  up  to  wait  for  it;  he  would  have  met  that 
thing  abroad  awake,  with  a stout  heart  and  an  iron  will. 
If  he  had  understood  the  fluttering  of  his  heart  and  the 
vague  disquiet  which  filled  his  soul  he  would  have  known 
that  these  things  were  caused  by  a benevolent  fairy,  in- 
capable of  doing  more  than  pluck  at  his  sleeve  and  whis- 
per in  his  ear  and  warn  him — though  by  signs  that  he  did 
not  understand— not  to  go  to  bed  that  night  at  all. 

Because,  you  see,  on  his  pillow,  waiting  till  the  man 
should  be  asleep,  when  he  could  whisper  evil  things  and 
fill  with  abominable  purposes  and  horrid  temptations,  sat  a 
devil.  George  did  not  know  this,  unfortunately,  and  so 
lay  down,  closed  his  eyes,  and  in  a few  minutes  fell  fast 
asleep. 

He  slept  for  two  hours.  Then  suddenly  he  started  vio- 
lently. He  heard,  as  one  sometimes  does  in  dreams,  his 


10 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


own  name  called  loudly.  He  sat  up  in  bed  and  listened. 
No,  it  was  only  a dream. 

He  was  about  to  lie  down  again;  still  half  asleep,  when 
he  became  aware  of  a most  singular  feeling  in  the  throat. 
It  was  dry  and  parched.  It  grew  drier,  more  parched 
every  moment.  It  seemed  to  be  on  fire.  Quickly,  in  a 
few  moments,  the  dry  throat  became  like  a red-hot  fur- 
nace, and  there  fell  upon  him  a necessity  to  drink,  just  as 
one  is  constrained  to  pour  water  upon  flames.  He  sprung 
out  of  bed  and  seized  the  carafe.  But  he  put  it  down 
without  drinking  any  of  the  water.  It  was  not  water  he 
wanted.  Not  ail  the  water  in  the  Nile  would  assuage  that 
raging  thirst  or  put  out  that  fire.  He  rushed  into  the 
other  room.  On  the  table  stood  that  bottle  of  whisky, 
newly  opened,  for  the  man  who  had  taken  a little.  He 
seized  a tumbler  and  half  filled  it  with  spirits.  Then  he 
filled  up  the  glass  with  water  and  drank  it  at  one  breath. 
Oh!  the  sweetness  and  the  refreshment  of  that  draught. 
He  took  another  and  another  with  deep-drawn  sighs  of 
satisfaction.  Not  Tantalus  himself,  when  the  water  ceased 
to  avoid  his  lips,  drank  with  greater  rapture  or  more 
greediness. 

It  was  over.  He  wondered  what  it  meant.  What  had 
he  done  to  cause  this  sudden  and  horrible  thirst — this  rag- 
ing fire  in  his  throat?  He  sighed  again.  It  was  over — 
would  it  come  again? 

He  went  back  to  his  bedroom.  But  he  took  the  bottle 
with  him,  and  he  sat  on  the  bed  trying  to  understand  the 
thing.  Such  a consuming  thirst  he  had  never  before  ex- 
perienced; not  even  after  the  first  row  over  the  course,  not 
even  when  climbing  painfully  up  the  slopes  of  Snowdon; 
never  had  he  felt,  never  had  he  conceived  the  idea  of  such 
a frightful,  appalling,  overwhelming  thirst. 

No  man  in  the  world  had  ever  been  more  temperate 
than  George  Atheling  — not  more  abstemious,  because 
George  always  took  his  pint  of  beer  with  his  lunch  and  his 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


11 


claret  with  his  dinner  like  any  other  young  man.  But  not 
the  least  breath  of  suspicion  had  ever  rested  upon  him  in 
the  matter  of  temperance.  Whisky  and  potash,  as  you 
have  seen,  were  to  be  had  in  his  rooms  by  those  who,  in 
spite  of  all  the  influence  now  brought  against  the  practice, 
still  took  this  mixture;  he  never  did. 

George,  however,  never  drank  this  compound.  Up  to 
this  moment  his  head  had  never  felt  the  potency  of  drink, 
nor  had  his  mind  ever  understood  how  men  can  crave 
ardent  liquor.  Never,  never,  never. 

Therefore  the  thing  must  clearly  have  been  by  the  in- 
stigation of  the  devil. 

While  he  sat  upon  his  bed  the  fiery  thirst  assailed  him  a 
second  time.  It  was  a flaming,  roaring,  raging,  consum- 
ing, devouring  thirst.  He  was  all  throat — burning,  scorch- 
ing throat.  The  thirst  compelled  him,  forced  him,  drove 
him,  to  drink  again.  He  drank  plain  whisky,  whisky  and 
water,  plain  whisky  again.  At  last  he  seemed  to  have  sub- 
dued the  thing.  But  he  had  nearly  finished  the  bottle. 

He  lay  back  wondering  stupidly  what  it  meant  and  what 
illness  was  about  to  follow.  Again — a third  time — the  fire 
broke  out.  He  drank  up  the  rest  of  the  bottle,  dropped  it 
from  his  hand  on  the  floor,  and  sunk  back  asleep.  The  whole 
business  had  hardly  lasted  five  minutes.  Perhaps  he  had 
never  been  fully  awake  at  all. 

At  seven  o'clock  his  gyp  looked  in  to  call  him.  He 
found  his  master  lying  on  his  back,  breathing  heavily,  his 
face  flushed.  At  the  bedside,  on  the  floor,  lay  the  empty 
bottle. 

“Good  Lord!"  said  the  man,  “1  opened  it  last  night 
at  nine  o'clock.  And  none  of  the  gentlemen  drank  it. 
He's  finished  the  whole  bottle.  Mr.  Atheling,  too!  Who'd 
ha'  thought  it!  Here!  Wake  up,  sir;  wake  up.  Mr. 
Atheling,  of  all  the  gentlemen  in  the  college!" 

He  could  not  wake  him  up.  He  therefore  desisted,. 


12 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


The  gyp,  by  name  Mavis,  was  a man  about  five-and- 
forty.  He  belonged  to  the  college;  his  father  had  been  a 
gyp  before  him  and  his  mother  was  a bedmaker;  he  had 
never  dreamed  of  anything  better  for  him  than  the  post  he 
held.  He  had  now  been  a gyp  for  twenty-five  years;  that 
is,  for  eight  generations  of  undergraduates.  He  was  a 
man  whom  some  men  loathed  and  others  regarded  as  the 
best  servant  in  the  world.  He  was  always  respectful, 
always  noiseless,  always  perfect  in  his  work.  Yet  some 
men  loathed  him — they  spoke  of  worms,  reptiles  and 
things  that  crawl  when  his  name  was  mentioned.  His 
eyes  were  downcast,  and  his  face,  clean  shaven,  was  pale. 

The  gyp,  therefore,  finding  that  he  could  not  wake  up 
his  master,  took  away  the  whisky  bottle,  left  him,  and  went 
about  his  work. 

At  nine,  at  ten,  and  at  eleven  he  looked  into  the  room 
again.  At  last  he  found  Mr.  Atheling  sitting  on  the  bed, 
half  dressed. 

44  Whatever  is  the  matter,  sir?”  asked  the  man,  44  what 
in  the  world — ” 

44  I’ve  got  a splitting  headache.” 

44  Well,  sir,  you’ll  excuse  me,  but  if  you  drink  a whole 
bottle  of  whisky  at  night,  what  can  you  expect  but  a head 
like  a lump  o’  lead.  I wonder  you’re  alive,  sir.  That  I 
do.  A whole  bottle!” 

44  A whole  bottle?”  George  started,  remembering  sud- 
denly what  had  happened. 

64  Mavis,”  he  said,  44  something  very  strange  has  hap- 
pened to  me.  1 got  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  with  a 
raging  thirst  and  I began  to  drink.  I had  to  drink,  else  I 
should  have  gone  mad.  Why  ” — his  eyes  rolled  and  his 
voice  became  thick — 44 1 feel  it  again.  1 am  going  mad,  I 
believe.  My  throat  is  on  fire — it  is  on  fire.”  He  fell  back 
upon  the  bed  and  buried  his  head  in  the  pillows  with  a 
groan. 

The  gyp  Mavis  ha(J  seen  other  young  men — they  are  by 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


13 


no  means  so  numerous  as  they  were  wont  to  be  fifty  years 
ago  at  this  ancient  seat  of  learning.  He  had  seen  them  in 
the  repentant  morning,  when  punishment  is  administered 
with  an  equal  hand,  and  when  hot  coppers,  fiery  throats, 
disordered  stomachs,  parched  tongues  and  fevered  brows 
are  served  out  among  sinners.  He  knew  the  symptoms, 
and  supposed  that  these  were  no  more  than  the  effects  of 
an  ordinary  case. 

44  What  you  want,”  he  said,  46  is  a small  glass  of  stuff, 
neat — a hair  of  the  dog—” 

44  Quick!  quick!  The  whisky!  Bring  it!  bring  it!” 

The  gyp  opened  another  bottle  and  brought  it.  To  his 
amazement  his  master,  the  most  sober  of  young  men,  did 
not  wait  for  a glass,  but  began  to  pour  the  whisky  down 
his  throat,  drinking  it  out  of  the  bottle. 

44  Good  Lord!”  he  cried,  44  Mr.  Atheling,  sir,  consider; 
youTl  kill  yourself.”  He  caught  his  master  by  the  arm 
and  tried  to  take  the  bottle  from  him.  George  raised  his 
fist,  massive  and  ponderous.  The  gypsy  recoiled  at  the 
very  sight  of  the  huge  weapon.  He  fell  backward  into  the 
tub,  where  he  sat  with  eyes  of  terror  and  of  amazement, 
regardless  of  the  cold  water,  while  he  saw  his  master  gasp- 
ing between  the  drinks  with  red,  swollen  cheeks  and  star- 
ing eyes. 

44  Good  Lord!”  he  cried  again,  44  heTl  kill  himself.” 

He  got  up  and  essayed  to  dry  his  clothes  a little  with  the 
bath  towel.  George  went  on  drinking,  but  less  greedily. 
The  first  strength  of  the  attack  was  gone.  Then  it  left 
him  altogether  and  he  staggered  out  into  his  keeping-room. 

Breakfast  was  laid,  but  he  refused  to  take  any,  throwing 
himself  into  a chair. 

The  gyp  cleared  away  the  things  and  left  him,  shutting 
the  outer  oak. 

When  he  came  back  about  five  or  six  he  found  his  mas- 
ter dead  drunk  on  the  floor.  And  another  bottle  of 
whisky  was  gone. 


14 


' ; 1 ' 

THE  DEMONIAC. 

“ Now,”  said  Mavis,  “ I wonder  what’s  best  to  be  done 
— for  him  and  for  me.  ” 

He  contemplated  this  fall  of  man  with  more  than  com- 
mon curiosity.  Other  Adams  he  had  seen  fall  in  a like 
deplorable  manner,  but  never  such  an  Adam-such  an 
unexpected  fall. 

66  Well,”  he  went  on,  66  nobody  would  have  believed  no- 
body. The  very  last  gentleman  in  the  college — that’s 
what  I should  ha’  said.  That’s  what  the  master  would 
ha’  said.  That’s  what  the  tutor  would  ha’  said.  That’s 
what  all  the  gentlemen  would  ha’  said.  The  very  last. 

And  such  a truly  determined  go.  I never  heard  tell  of 
such  a drunk  before;  I never  see  such  a drunk.  He  ought 
to  be  a dead  ’un  with  all  that  whisky.  If  he  hadn’t  been 
such  a uncommon  big  man  he  would  be  a dead  ’un,  too — 
stiff  ’un  and  dead.  ” 

He  lifted  his  master  with  great  difficulty  from  the  floor 
to  the  sofa.  And  then  he  left  him  there.  But  he  im- 
pressed upon  the  bedmaker,  who  knew  nothing  about  the 
bottles  of  whisky,  that  Mr.  Atheling  was  ill  and  must  not 
be  disturbed  on  any  account.  He  himself  would  lock  after 
him. 

In  the  evening  at  nine  o’clock  the  gyp  came  again.  He 
laid  out  a little  food  upon  the  table  in  case  his  master 
should  awake  hungry,  and  he  left  him  in  darkness  and 
went  away. 

It  was  full  daylight  when  George  awoke.  He  sat  up  on 
the  sofa  and  looked  round  him.  He  had  fallen  asleep  on 
the  sofa.  He  remembered  nothing  more.  He  got  up,  un- 
dressed, and  went*  to  bed. 

In  the  morning  his  gyp  found  him  sleeping  like  a child. 

The  fever  had  spent  itself. 

Presently  he  arose  and  dressed.  His  hands  shook,  his 
head  was  aching,  but  he  felt  no  more  thirst. 

66  Mavis,”  he  said,  66  you  were  here  yesterday — in  the 
morning?’' 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


15 


66 1 was,  sir.” 

“ Tell  me — did  you  ever — did  you  ever  see  a man  in 
such  a condition  before?” 

44  Well,  sir,”  said  the  man,  66 1 have  seen  many  a gen- 
tleman as  drunk  as  a log,  but  1 don't  think  1 ever  see 
any  gentleman  so  fierce  with  it  as  you  were  yesterday 
morning.  Lord!  It  seemed  as  if  you  couldn't  get  the 
drink  down  fast  enough.” 

64 1 could  not,  indeed.  You  have  exactly  described  it.” 

44  Three  bottles  of  whisky  gone  since  Tuesday  night,  and 
now  it's  Thursday.  There's  many  a poor  fellow  as  gets 
the  horrors  on  a good  deal  less  than  that.  Three  bottles 
of  whisky  in  one  night  and  a day!  Because  last  night  you 
didn't  drink  anything.” 

44  Mavis,  who  saw  me  besides  yourself?” 

44  No  one  saw  you.  No  one,  sir.  I took  good  care  of 
that.  I took  away  the  bottles  and  told  Mrs.  Grip  ”* — she 
was  the  bedmaker — 44  that  you  were  ill  and  not  to  be  dis- 
turbed. She  suspects  nothing.  If  she  did  it  would  be  all 
over  the  college  by  this  time.  No,  sir,  I know  my  duty  to 
the  gentlemen  of  my  college,  I hope.  Your  oak  was 
sported  and  you  were  not  at  home  to  anybody,  not  even  to 
the  master,  if  he'd  been  taking  a walk  this  way.” 

George  breathed  more  freely.  It  is  bad  to  be  at  the 
mercy  of  a servant,  but  even  that  is  better  than  to  have 
your  shame  proclaimed  all  over  the  place,  though  you 
must  bear  it.  He  drew  a purse  from  his  pocket.  There 
was  in  it  a ten-pound  note,  and  he  gave  it  to  the  gyp. 
Thus  the  Britons  bought,  out  the  Saxons  and  the  Saxons 
bought  out  the  Danes. 

44  This,”  he  said,  44  is  for  yesterday,  for  to-day,  and  for 
to-morrow  and  ever  afterward. " 

44  You're  very  kind,  sir,  Fm  sure.  I wasn't  thinking 
of  that.  ” Mavis  pocketed  the  present  with  a smile  of  satis- 
faction which  could  not  be  restrained.  44  Of  course,  sir, 
no  one  shall  know.  And  if  at  any  future  time — ” 


16 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


“ Silence!”  cried  George,  with  gathering  wrath. 
“ There  can  be  no  future  time.  It  is  impossible!” 

He  marched  into  his  keeping-room,  being  now  fully 
dressed. 

Mavis  pulled  out  the  note  and  looked  at  it.  Yes,  his 
eyes  had  not  deceived  him.  It  was  a tenner. 

“Lord!”  he  said,  “ here's  luck.  And  it's  only  a be- 
ginning. He's  sure  to  do  it  again.  They  always  do. 
Pity!  pity!  He's  at  the  end  of  his  second  year  a'ready. 
Ah,  what  I might  have  made  out  of  him  by  this  time  if 
he'd  only  begun  when  he  was  a freshman!” 


CHAPTER  II. 

HOW  THE  THING  WAS  RECEIVED. 

George  swallowed  some  breakfast.  Then,  reflecting 
that  the  men  were  all  at  lecture  and  that  nobody  would 
meet  him,  he  took  his  hat  and  walked  out  of  college.  He 
wanted  to  be  alone  all  day  in  order  to  think  about  it — to 
put  the  thing  clearly  to  himself.  In  order  to  be  alone  he 
must  walk  out  of  the  place. 

He  took  the  road  before  him — that  which  led  to  Mad- 
ingley — and  tramped  resolutely  along  the  broad  flat  way 
which  stretches  across  the  broad  flat  country. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  humiliated.  Worse 
than  humiliation  had  fallen  upon  him;  a profound  abase- 
ment, a feeling  of  degradation.  He  was  hurled  from  his 
heights  of  self-respect.  “I  am  a hog,  1 am  a hog,”  he 
said  a thousand  times.  “ I made  no  resistance.  I drank 
because  I was  thirsty.  What  became  of  my  strength? 
Where  was  my  will?  Where  was  my  self-respect?  All — 
all  vanished  in  a moment.  Why  did  this  thing  fall  upon 
me?  How  was  it  caused?”  with  other  questions  rising 
naturally  out  of  the  situation,  just  as  an  examination 
paper  rise*?  naturally  out  of  the  Peloponnesian  war.  Only, 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


17 


had  he  attempted  to  pass  this  examination,  to  answer  these 
questions,  he  would  have  been  most  certainly  and  surely 
plucked,  because  he  had  no  answer  to  any  single  one. 

How  did  it  happen?  Why,  it  is  a thing  incredible. 
Who  could  expect  it?  That  a young  man  of  strictly  tem- 
perate habits  should  thus  suddenly  become -a  drunkard — 
that  he  should  drink  for  two  days  and  more  without  stop- 
ping— who  could  believe  it?  There  is  a well-known  story 
of  a monk  who  for  some  reason  was  condemned  to  commit 
one  of  the  deadly  sins.  He  chose  drunkenness  as  the  least 
deadly — if  there  is  any  difference  in  the  deadliness  of  sins. 
When  he  recovered  he  found  that  he  had  committed  all 
the  rest.  George  Atheling  was  like  that  monk  in  one  re- 
spect, namely,  that  he  had  actually  done  the  thing  which 
he  had  always  held  in  the  greatest  loathing  and  contempt. 
Like  the  late  Duke  of  Surrey,  he  was  induced,  on  hearing 
the  commandment  44  Thou  shalt  not  get  drunk, ” to  mur- 
mur, instead  of  the  form  appointed,  the  words  44  Never 
did  that.”  The  commandment  forbade  a thing  which 
was  impossible  to  him.  And  he  had  done  it;  he  was  that 
miserable,  cowardly  creature — a drunkard. 

He  walked  hard;  he  grew  hot;  he  grew  thirsty.  A 
dreadful  fear  fell  upon  him  that  this  might  prove  a return 
of  the  former  thirst  insatiable.  He  stopped  at  a little  vil- 
lage shop  where  they  kept  ginger  beer,  and  ordered  a bottle 
of  this  delectable  compound  with  horrid  forebodings. 

Nothing  followed.  His  thirst  was  the  result  of  fatigue 
and  exercise,  coupled  with  the  natural  effects  of  his  orgy. 
He  drank  his  ginger  beer  and  felt  relieved.  .Presently  he 
turned  and  walked  back.  When  he  reached  the  college  he 
was  so  much  better  that  he  was  encouraged  to  venture  into 
Hall,  where  he  accounted  for  his  absence  the  day  before  by 
a little  fiction— -one  of  that  kind  not  put  down  by  the  Re- 
cording Angel.  He  said  he  had  had  a touch  of  sore  throat. 
He  was  looking  ill,  they  told  him.  What  he  felt  was  that 
he  might  at  any  moment  be  seized  at  the  throat  by  this 


18 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


devil  of  a thirst  and  bite  himself.  Fortunately  this  did 
not  happen. 

He  retreated  after  Hall  to  his  own  rooms,  afraid  to  trust 
himself  any  longer  among  his  friends.  He  went  to  bed 
early,  not  so  much  because  he  was  tired,  but  because  he 
was  anxious.  He  went  to  bed  with  a dreadful  fear  of  what 
might  happen.  He  awoke  at  three  expectant.  Nothing 
at  all  happened.  He  had  no  desire  for  drink.  The 
thought  of  drinking  whisky  at  that  time  filled  him  with 
loathing.  He  laid  his  head  upon  the  pillow  and  fell  asleep 
again.  In  the  morning  he  awoke  perfectly  recovered* 
He  got  up  early,  took  a header  in  the  college  bath  and  a 
run  round  Parker’s  Piece  before  breakfast.  He  was  him- 
self again.  Nay,  though  he  thought  of  the  thing  with 
horror,  it  was  principally  because  he  had  made  so  shame- 
ful a surrender.  Should  it  ever  come  upon  him  again  he 
would  fight  it  down.  Certainly  he  would  fight  it  down. 
But  perhaps  it  would  not  come  any  more. 

Mavis,  for  his  part,  regarded  his  master  with  a greatly 
increased  interest.  And  he  took  care,  being  a thoughtful 
gyp  and  knowing  what  was  due  to  his  gentlemen,  that 
there  should  be  ready  to  hand,  at  least  one  bottle  of  ardent 
spirits  to  carry  his  master  along,  in  case  he  should  again  be 
visited  by  that  consuming  thirst.  It  will  be  observed  that 
Mavis  belonged  naturally  to  the  tribe  of  those  who  live  by 
providing  for  the  vice  of  others.  Mavis  was  disappointed. 
The  term  went  on  and  there  was  no  second  attack.  He 
watched  his  master  closely.  He  drank  next  to  nothing. 
He  trained  and  rowed  in  the  college  boat.  He  read  in  the 
mornings  and  in  the  evenings  went  about  among  the  other 
men,  exactly  as  before.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  forgotten 
that  night  and  day.  George  had  not  forgotten  it.  Such 
a thing  is  not  so  readily  forgotten,  he  had  yielded,  coward- 
ly; such  a thing  as  a disgraceful  surrender  is  not  easily  for- 
gotten. But  he  had  been  taken  unawares.  If  it  should 
fall  upon  him  a second  time  he  should  know  how  to  fight 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


19 


it.  He  had  been  attacked  suddenly  and  in  his  sleep;  he 
was  half  asleep;  next  time,  should  there  ever  happen  a 
next  time,  he  would  meet  it  as  a man  should. 

Other  things  happened  which  prevented  him  from  for- 
getting it.  A man  in  the  college — a man  with  whom 
George  would  not  consort— a man  of  low  and  vicious 
habits,  was  known  to  be  suffering  from  delirium  tremens. 
This  made  the  men  talk  of  drink.  There  were  articles 
and  letters  in  the  papers  on  the  great  temperance  question. 
And  one  everning  a thing  was  said  which  gave  him  food 
for  much  reflection. 

It  was  in  a small  company  of  talk  in  the  evening.  They 
were  talking  at  large — encyclopedically — as  young  men 
delight.  Every  clever  young  man  would  be  Doctor  Uni- 
versalis. For  the  moment  they  talked  of  heredity. 

44  Everything  is  hereditary,”  said  one  of  them  who  was 
going  in  for  science,  and  therefore  had  a right  to  pro- 
nounce. “ We  inherit  everything — our  virtues  and  our 
vices,  our  strength  and  our  weakness — from  our  forefa- 
thers. ” 

66  According  to  that,”  said  another,  44  no  man  can  be 
praised  or  blamed.” 

44  Not  for  his  virtues  or  his  vices,  but  for  the  extent  to 
which  he  carries  things.  When  a child  is  born  we  ought 
to  be  able  to  predict  for  him  all  the  forces  which  will  act 
upon  him.  One  grandfather  was  penurious,  or  one  was  ex- 
travagant; one  was  rash,  or  one  was  timid — and  so  on. 
Unfortunately  we  keep  no  record  of  our  grandfathers  and 
their  peculiarities.  If  we  were  to  begin  to  do  this  it  would 
be  the  better  for  our  grandchildren.  1 take  it  that  in- 
herited tendencies  may  be  strengthened  or  weakened  ac- 
cording to  the  action  of  any  generation.  If  the  worse  man 
in  the  world  could  realize  the  miseries  his  way  of  life  was 
transmitting  to  his  children,  he  would  become  virtuous.  *’ 

44  Well,  but  we  inherit  all  the  virtues  and  all  the  vices 
and  all  the  diseases.” 


20 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


“ Each  generation  gets  only  a part.  Asthma  goes  to 
one  and  gout  to  another.  We  haven’t  time,  I suppose,  in 
seventy  years  to  work  through  the  whole  of  our  inherit- 
ance. Methusalah  is  the  only  man  who  really  did  that. 
Things  seem  capricious  only  because  we  have  not  found 
out  a law  of  heredity.  Take  the  most  hereditary  thing  of 
all,  for  instance — drunkenness.” 

64  Drunkenness  hereditary?” 

46  Why,  of  course  it  is  as  hereditary  as  gout.  In  a large 
family  it  will  attack  one  and  spare  all  the  rest.  Or  it  will 
jump  over  a whole  generation  and  break  out  in  the  next.” 

George  heard  no  more,  for  now  he  remembered  a little 
episode  in  his  family  history — a thing  he  had  heard  once 
and  had  long  since  forgotten.  His  own  grandfather,  his 
mother’s  father,  had,  to  use  a familiar  expression,  drank 
himself  to  death.  He  remembered  plainly  hearing  that 
stated  somewhere.  How  can  a man  drink  himself?  Why, 
if  every  draught  accelerated  his  end  the  liquor  may  be  a 
figure  of  speech — stand  for  the  breath  of  life.  He  drinks 
himself  up. 

Who  told  him  this?  Not  his  mother,  certainly.  Yet 
he  knew  it.  He  had  heard  it.  His  grandfather  died  quite 
young — under  thirty.  He  drank  himself  to  death.  So 
this,  then,  was  part  of  his  inheritance.  His  friends  talked; 
he  sat  silent,  resolving  to  meet  this  danger  with  a strong 
will  and  the  courage  of  a valiant  heart.  He  longed  for  the 
occasion  to  arrive.  The  sooner  it  came  the  better.  Since 
the  battle  had  to  be  fought  out,  let  it  be  fought  speedily 
while  he  was  at  his  strongest  and  best. 

The  occasion  lingered.  The  term  passed  by  without 
any  further  trouble. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  term  most  of  the  men  went  down. 
It  suited  his  arrangements  to  stay  up  for  one  day  longer. 
He  had  almost  ceased  to  fear  the  thing.  He  was  so  sure 
of  his  power  to  meet  it  when  it  came  that  he  tried  to 
trouble  himself  no  more  about  it.  To  be  sure,  he  had 


THE.  DEMONIAC. 


21 


yielded  shamefully.  But  then  he  was  taken  unawares. 
The  next  time — 

He  sat  reading  in  his  room  until  midnight.  Then  he 
went  to  bed  and  fell  asleep. 

Early  in  the  morning,  before  day-break,  he  awoke  with  a 
start.  The  horrible  thirst  was  upon  him  a second  time; 
the  fire  in  his  throat,  the  craving  irresistible,  vehement, 
for  strong  drink  had  seized  him  again. 

He  made  no  resistance;  he  attempted  none.  It  seemed 
impossible  for  him  to  think  of  resistance.  He  never 
thought  of  resisting.  He  rushed  into  the  other  room. 
There  was  no  whisky.  He  found  a bottle  of  brandy  and 
drank  that.  When  it  was  finished  he  hurled  himself  upon 
a bottle  of  sherry,  as  Ajax  threw  himself  upon  the  inno- 
cent sheep,  and  made  dead  men  of  every  one,  until  he 
rolled  over  and  became  an  unconscious  log. 

Three  days  later,  pa.le  and  haggard,  knocked  to  pieces 
by  an  orgy  far  longer,  far  worse  than  the  first;  an  orgy 
which  terrified  the  gyp  and  almost  drove  him  to  reveal 
what  was  going  on  to  the  tutor,  George  went  down.  Mavis, 
after  he  had  carried  his  'master's  portmanteau  to  the  col- 
lege gates,  went  back  to  his  staircase  and  sat  on  the  stairs, 
smiling  with  satisfaction.  In  his  pocket  was  another  ten- 
pound  note.  Very  few  college  gyps,  he  reflected,  even 
when  they've  got  a young  nobleman,  had  made  a better 
term  of  it  than  himself. 

George  went  down,  wrecked  in  mind  more  than  in  body. 
For  a man  may  fail  once  and  yet  retrieve  his  good  name. 
Regiments  have  been  known  to  run  away  from  the  enemy 
one  day  and  to  defeat  them  the  next.  But  George  failed 
twice,  and  the  second  failure  was  far  worse  than  the  first. 

He  fell  into  despair.  He  could  no  longer  associate  with 
other  men.  He  must  leave  the  university.  He  wrote  at 
once  to  take  his  name  off  the  college  books  without  assign- 
ing any  reason.  64  Pity  he  is  so  rich,"  said  the  tutor;  44 1 
hoped  that  he  would  have  gone  on,  as  he  began  without  the 


22 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


ordinary  stimulus.  Nobody  ought  to  be  allowed  to  be  rich 
till  he  is  fifty  at  least.”  He  was  himself  doing  extremely 
well,  and  he  was  forty-nine. 

The  tutor  was  wrong.  It  was  not  his  big  income  which 
made  him  lazy.  It  was  this  truly  awful  thing  that  had 
fallen  upon  him.  This  it  was  that  made  him  afraid  and 
ashamed  to  return -among  his  old  friends.  Sooner  or  later 
they  would  find  him  out. 

Once — twice — in  Cambridge.  A month  later — in  Lon- 
don, and  never  any  resistance  at  all.  Never  the  least 
power  of  resistance.  As  soon  as  the  fiery  furnace  began 
to  burn  in  his  throat  he  rushed  to  the  bottles  and  drank 
drank— drank — mad — mad  to  extinguish  the  flames. 

All  that  summer  he  stayed  in  London.  He  would  not 
trust  himself  to  see  his  fiancee,  Elinor  Thanet.  He  wrote, 
making  excuses.  He  was  afraid  to  face  her. 

Then  a great  dread  fell  upon  him  that  he  might  some- 
how be  attacked  without  the  means  of  allaying  the  thing. 
He  thought  he  must  have  with  him  always  a confidential 
servant  who  would  know  what  to  do.  There  was  the  man 
Mavis.  He  did  not  like  the  man  much,  but  he  was  a good 
servant  and  he  knew  the  truth.  Perhaps  he  would  give  up 
the  college.  He  telegraphed  to  Mavis. 

Mavis  came;  he  was  willing  to  leave  the  college  if  it  was 
made  worth  his  while;  he  was  more  than  willing  to  act  as 
the  keeper  of  a gentleman  who  wanted  somebody  to  look 
after  him.  Mavis  proved  a person  of  great  resource;  he 
did  not  propose  resistance  or  any  other  impossibilities;  he 
accepted  the  facts  of  the  case;  he  looked  for,  and  found, 
to  begin  with,  a cottage  at  a convenient  distance  from 
town  and  quite  in  the  country.  On  three  occasions,  be- 
tween the  months  of  June  and  the  end  of  September,  he 
took  his  master  down  to  this  retreat.  He  also  took  with 
him  a large  hamper  containing  ardent  drinks  of  various 
kinds. 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


23 


hi  the  intervals  between  these  visits  George  found  him- 
self perfectly,  absolutely  free  from  the  desire  for  drink. 
He  loathed  the  sight  of  whisky;  he  became  a total  ab- 
stainer. In  other  respects  he  was  the  same  as  before — 
perfectly  strong  and  healthy  both  in  mind  and  body.  But 
when  the  attack  began  he  made  no  more  attempt  at  resist- 
ance than  a man  with  neuralgia  does  to  persuade  himself 
that  there  is  no  pain  anywhere. 

He  fell  into  a profound  melancholy.  He  now  fully  un- 
derstood that  the  same  disease  which  had  killed  his  grand- 
father had  fallen  upon  himself.  His  career  was  stopped  at 
the  outset.  There  would  be  no  career  possible  for  him. 
How  can  a man  do  anything  who  has  to  go  away  into  hid- 
ing every  month  or  so  while  the  devil  forces  him  to  make 
a hog  of  himself? 

When  the  men  came  back  to  college  in  October  it  was 
reported  that  Mavis  had  resigned.  It  was  also  said  that 
Atheling  had  taken  his  name  off  the  books.  Atheling? 
What  on  earth  did  he  do  that  for?  Atheling?  Of  all  the 
men  in  the  college  the  last  they  would  let  go.  Atheling? 
What  did  it  mean?  Despondency  fell  upon  the  whole  col- 
lege, insomuch  that  the  freshmen  were  awed  and  hushed 
and  in  the  Hall  there  was  no  laughter  and  in  the  rooms 
there  were  no  stories  told,  and  the  college  boat,  for  the  want 
of  their  No.  5,  began,  like  Noah’s  Ark,  to  creep  slowly 
upon  the  face  of  the  waters. 

George’s  rooms  were  taken  by  a freshman  named  John 
Carew — a,  youth  of  promise  who  had  obtained  the  first  en- 
trance scholarship —brought  up  a scholarship  from  St. 
Paul’s,  and  was  expected  to  become  a Bell  scholar. 

This  man  took  over  the  furniture  of  his  predecessor  at  a 
valuation.  One  morning,  while  he  was  searching  in  a 
alrawer  of  his  writing-table,  he  came  upon  a layer  of  old 
stationery.  Among  the  envelopes  was  a cabinet  photo- 
graph representing  the  face  of  a very  good-looking  young 
man  indeed. 


24 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


“ What  is  this?”  said  Carew,  showing  it  to  a man  in 
the  room  at  the  time.  He  was  a third-year  man. 

Why , said  he,  this  is  a portrait  of  Atheling,  who 
was  going  to  do  such  great  things,  only  they  have  not  come 
off.  No  one  knows  why  he  went  down  or  where  he  is  now. 
Cherchez  la  femme,  perhaps.  ” 

Anyhow,”  said  Carew,  “ he  had  a good  face — an  ad- 
mirable face.  One  would  not  readily  forget  such  a face  as 
that.  I wish  1 had  known  him.  A face  that  one  could 
not  forget  if  one  tried.  ” 

CHAPTER  III. 

HOW  ELINOR  RECEIVED  GEORGE’S  DETERMINATION. 

“ So,  sir,”  said  Elinor,  stepping  across  the  lawn  to  meet 
her  lover,  “ you  have  come  at  last.” 

It  was  a warm  and  sunny  afternoon,  toward  the  end  of 
September.  A broad  lawn  stretched  in  front  of  a goodly 
country  house,  modern,  perhaps  too  new;  but  the  Thanets 
are  new  people,  as  everybody  knows.  Yet  not  so  very  new, 
and  their  novelty  is  gilded.  Not  people  of  to-day,  but  of 
yesterday,  or  even  the  day  before  yesterday.  It  matters 
very  little  in  these  days  how  the  money  is  made,  but  it  may- 
be mentioned  as  a detail  that  the  Thanet  money  was  made 
by  Elinor’s  grandfather  in  the  good  old  days  of  railway 
making,  when  the  founder  of  the  family  engineered,  con- 
tracted, and  constructed  on  the  largest  scale  possible,  with 
results  of  a most  satisfactory  kind.  Elinor  herself,  an  only 
child,  might  have  been  the  daughter  of  a hundred  belted 
earls;  but  then  our  English  girls,  where  they  have  got  the 
wherewithal,  do  in  the  second  generation  easily  assume  the 
aristocratic  manner  and  appearance.  She  was  still  quite 
young,  not  more  than  eighteen;  more  womanly  in  figure 
than  most  girls  of  that'  age,  and  rather  more  serious  in 
countenance.  This  was  perhaps  due  to  her  difficulties 
with  Latin  prose,  which  still  continued  to  cause  her  anx- 


THE  DEMONIAC.  25 

iety.  It  might  also  be  partly  caused  by  the  neglect  of  her 
lover,  who  had  not  been  to  see  her  all  the  summer. 

64  You  have  treated  me  so  abominably,  sir,”  she  said, 
giving  him  both  her  hands,  44  that  I had  almost  made  up 
my  mind — ” 

• 44 1 am  so  very  sorry,  Nell — I could  not  possibly  come 
before.  I have  been  kept  in  town  by  all  kinds  of  business 
and — 99 

44  Oh,  business,  indeed!”  she  laughed,  incredulous. 
44  You  know,  George,  you  never  had  any  business  in  your 
life.  First,  I thought  you  were  going  up  for  the  Long. 
Then  you  said  you  were  going  to  France  or  somewhere. 
Then  I had  that  strange  letter  from  you.” 

44  Forget  that  letter,  Nell.  I was  ill  when  1 wrote  it.” 

44 1 have  forgotten  it,  because  you  would  not  have  writ- 
ten it  if  you  had  been  well.  I tore  it  up.  But,  George, 
you  must  have  been  very  ill  to  write  such  a strange,  ram- 
bling letter — all  about  heredity  and  duty  to  posterity,  and 
1 know  not  what.” 

44 1 had  a feverish  cold  which  made  me  light-headed  for 
a few  hours.  Forget  that  letter,  Nellie.  1 wrote  it  when 
1 was  only  half  myself  and  full  of  queer  fancies.  ” 

44  Oh,  it  is  nothing.  It  is  forgotten.  Let  me  look  at 
you.  George,  you  don't  look  at  all  well;  whatever  is  the 
matter  with  you?” 

44  Nothing,  Nell;  nothing  at  all.  What  should  there 
be?” 

44  Your  face  looks— what  shall  1 say? — puffy,  and  your 
eyes  look  anxious.  What  has  happened?”  she  asked, 
earnestly. 

44  Nothing  has  happened,  Nell,  except  that  1 was  cer- 
tainly ill  for  a few  days.  What  should  have  happened?” 

She  shook  her  head.  44  Something,”  she  said.  44  Why, 
1 found  out  from  your  letters  that  something  was  wrong. 
There  has  been — I don’t  know — a discordant  note  in  them 
for  two  or  three  months.  Well,  you  will  tell  me — won't 


26 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


you,  George? — if  there  is  any  trouble?  How  can  we  be 
happy  together  unless  we  share  all  our  troubles,  whatever 
they  may  be?” 

“ Yes,  Nell;  yes,  you  are  quite  right.  I will  take  all 
your  troubles  on  my  own  back  and  you  shall  have  no  part 
of  mine.  Come,  that  is  my  idea  of  fair  division.” 

She  shook  her  head.  That  would  not  do. 

“Well,  then,”  said  George,  “let  us  talk  about  some- 
thing else — about  you,  for  instance.  Tell  me  all  that  you 
are  doing.  Who  is  here,  to  begin  with?” 

It  matters  nothing  to  us  who  was  in  the  house.  George 
kept  the  talk  on  things  indifferent  until  it  was  time  to  dress. 

“1  must  tell  her,”  he  murmured,  during  that  cere- 
mony. “ 1 must  tell  her  something — enough.  This  is  to 
be  my  last  visit.  I will  tell  her  to-morrow  morning.” 

“Mamma  dear,”  said  Elinor,  on  her  way  to  dress, 
“ there  is  something  wrong  with  George.” 

“ What  should  there  be?” 

“1  do  not  know.  Something  there  is.  Watch  him 
during  dinner.” 

No  one  else  observed  any  change  in  him.  Mr.  Thanet 
congratulated  him  on  looking  so  well.  A certain  learned 
physician,  who  was  of  the  company,  and  an  old  friend,  told 
him  that  he  ought  to  be  the  happiest  man  in  the  world — 
meaning  because  he  was  young,  strong,  and  lusty,  rich, 
and  happy  in  his  love.  Those  who  were  not  old  friends  re- 
garded with  admiration  this  magnificent  specimen  of  hu- 
manity. If  they  were  ladies  they  envied  the  lot  of  Elinor, 
and  if  they  were  men  they  envied  the  lot  of  the  man  him- 
self, fortunate  in  love,  fortunate  in  gifts  and  graces,  fort- 
unate in  birth,  wealth,  and  understanding.  What  more 
could  Nature  give  him?  She  had  given  him  in  addition  to 
these  inherited  qualities  a grandfather  who  drank  himself 
to  death. 

George  had  little  conversation  with  Elinor  during  the 
dinner.  She  observed  that  his  hand  shook  a great  deal;  at 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


27 


this  she  marveled.  And  she  observed  that  he  drank  no 
wine,  a thing  which  now  causes  no  astonishment.  He 
must  have  been  very  ill,  she  thought,  when  he  wrote  that 
letter.  That  illness  had  not  completely  left  him  yet.  It 
altered  the  tone  of  his  letters;  it  altered  the  look  in  [his 
eyes. 

46  My  dear,”  said  her  mother,  after  dinner,  64  you  are 
too  anxious  about  George.  He  seems  to  be  very  well.” 

44  No.  He  is  not  well.  He  is  fidgety  and  nervous.  I 
dare  say  he  will  tell  me  about  it  to-morrow.” 

44 1 hope  you  are  pleased,  George,”  said  Mrs.  Thanet, 
44  about  our  consent  to  the  Newnham  scheme.  ” 

44  If  Elinor  is  pleased,”  he  replied,  languidly,  44  of 
course  I am.” 

44  But  I want  more  than  that  from  you,  George.  You 
see,  Elinor  says  that  if  she  is  to  marry  a man  of  intellect 
she  must  herself  be  learned  and  taught  to  become  his  in- 
tellectual companion  if  not  his  equal.  I do  not  myself  see 
the  necessity  of  understanding  all  your  husband's  pursuits, 
but  girls  are  taken  with  this  new  talk  about  equality.  You 
see — ” 

44 1 think  it  is  a very  noble  ambition  on  Elinor's  part,” 
he  said,  with  a return  to  his  old  manner.  44  And  I hope 
that  she  will  get  the  first-class  that  she  aims  at.” 

George  passed  a most  uncomfortable  night.  This  was 
inevitable,  because  he  knew  that  certain  things  must  be 
said  in  the  morning;  certain  things  must  be  told  which 
would  not  be  well  received.  He  was  not  going  to  tell  all 
the  things  that  had  happened.  Not  all.  He  could  not  go 
to  the  girl  and  say,  44  Nellie,  the  man  you  love  is  afflicted 
with  a dire  and  dreadful  disease.  He  is  assailed  by  a 
friend  who  brings  him  a bottle  and  commands  him  to 
drink.  He  is  so  weak  and  cowardly  that  he  has  yielded  to 
this  devil  without  the  least  resistance.  He  has  never  re- 
sisted him  at  all.  He  has  never  even  attempted  to  resist 
him.  He  has  been  prevented  from  coming  here  all  the 


28 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


summer  by  one  attack  after  the  other;  he  is  only  here  at 
great  risk  of  being  found  out  between  his  attacks.  He 
has  a man-servant  whose  only  duty  it  is  to  watch  for  the 
approach  of  the  next  attack  and  to  take  care  of  him  while 
it  lasts.  In  plain  language,  your  lover  has  become  a con- 
firmed drunkard  in  the  short  space  of  three  months.” 
Could  he  say  all  this  to  the  girl?  Could  he  write  this  to 
her?  Could  he  even  say  this  to  himself  in  so  many  words? 

In  the  morning  he  declined  to  join  the  shooting-party 
and  remained  at  home  in  order  to  tell  as  much  as  he  dared 
— as  much,  in  fact,  as  would  put  an  end  to  his  engage- 
ment. He  was  going  to  commit  a kind  of  suicide.  Heav- 
ens! if  any  one  had  told  him  six  months  agone  that  he 
would  of  his  own  accord  try  to  find  out  words  strong 
enough  and  cruel  enough  to  break  off  his  engagement! 

“ Come  into  the  library,  George,”.said  Elinor.  “ You. 
have  something  to  tell  me.  We  can  talk  quite  freely 
now.  ” 

This  was  her  own  study.  A table  in  one  of  the  windows 
was  covered  with  books  and  papers.  She  sat  down  in  her 
own  chair  before  the  table. 

“Iam  getting  on  very  well,  George.  My  coach  is  quite 
satisfied  with  me.  1 have  not  yet  told  him  of  my  am- 
bitions, but  he  knows  1 am  going  to  read  for  honors.” 

“1  am  very  glad  if  it  pleases  you,  Nell.  What  I have 
to  tell  you  will  not  please  you  so  much,  I think.” 

He  turned  his  head,  afraid  to  meet  her  eyes. 

“ What  is  it?” 

He  went  to  the  open  window  and  looked  out. 

“ Only — that  we  shall  not  be  undergraduates  together? 
after  all.” 

“ George!”  She  sprung  to  her  feet.  “ Not  under- 
graduates together!” 

“ I have  made  up  my  mind,  in  fact,  that  I would  give 
up  reading  for  honors.  1 think  the  time  may  be  more 
profitably  employed.” 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


29 


“ In  what  way?  Why,  you  have  always  believed  that  a 
first-class  in  honors  is  the  best  start  a man  can  possibly 
make.  ” 

6 6 1 certainly  used  to  hold  that  belief.  I do  so  no  longer. 
If  you  consider  our  statesmen,”  he  said,  grandly — “our 
leading  statesmen — you  will  observe  that  hardly  any  of 
them  have  -got  a first-class.  Now,  1 think  that  the  study 
of  politics,  history,  perhaps  modern  languages — ” 

“ But,  George,  this  is  quite  a new  departure.” 

“ Quite  a new  departure.  And,  in  short,  I have  already 
taken  my  name  off  the  .college  books.  I am  not  going 
back  to  Cambridge  at  all.” 

“Oh,  but  this  is  terrible!  I can  not  understand  it. 
Oh,  George,  I am  so  sorry — I am  so  very  sorry.”  The 
tears  came  into  her  eyes  as  she  spoke. 

“ It  is  done  now,”  he  replied,  doggedly. 

“ But  I don’t  understand  it,”  she  said.  “ What  does  it 
mean?  WThen  I saw  you  last — in  May  was  it,  or  in 
April?  not  since  then;  a long  while  ago— you  were  full  of 
your  work  and  of  college  matters.  You  were  resolved  on 
getting  into  the  first  class.  Nothing  at  all  has  happened 
since.  Yet,  George  ” — she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm — 
“ something  has  happened.  You  are  ill;  you  wrote  an  in- 
coherent letter.  Has  that  illness  anything  to  do  with  it? 
Are  you  still  suffering  from  its  effects?  You  are  not  your- 
self; your  hand  shakes;  your  eyes  are  anxious,  and  they 
are  cold,”  she  added. 

“ Nothing  at  all  has  happened,  Nell.  As  for  my  ill- 
ness, that  was  nothing.  ” 

“ Do  you  remember,  George,  years  ago,  when  you 
wanted  to  hide  from  me  that  ugly  cut  in  your  left  arm, 
how  you  persisted  in  saying  that  nothing  had  happened  till 
the  blood  ran  down?  Now,  George,  no  more  fibs  and  fic- 
tions. Tell  me  straight  what  has  come  over  you.” 

“ There  is  nothing  to  tell,  I assure  you.” 

“ Why,  your  looks  belie  you.  Your  eyes  are  guilty. 


30 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


Come,  tell  me  what  it  is?  Have  you  done  anything  fool- 
ish? Any  young  man  might,  though  you  would  be  the 
last.  1 have  heard  of  men  being  rusticated  for  foolish 
things — making  bonfires  or  something — but  you  could  not 
possibly  go  making  bonfires.” 

“ No;  I have  not  been  rusticated.  1 simply  got  tired  of 
reading.  What  is  the  good  of  a first-class  to  me?  To 
some  poor  devil  who  has  got  his  way  to  make  in  the  world 
I dare  say  it  helps  more  than  a bit.  But  to  me — ” 

“ To  you?  Why,  of  all  men  in  the  world,  George,  you 
have  got  your  way  to  make.  What  signifies  money?  You 
may  have  your  wealth  as  one  means— but  the  least  worthy 
— of  making  your  way.  Where  are  your  ambitions?”  * 

“ 1 think  they  are  all  gone,  Nell,”  he  replied,  trying  to 
speak  and  look  cheerfully.  - 64  They  are  all  gone  into  the 
limbo  of  forgotten  resolutions.  I have  ceased  to  think  in 
the  old  way.” 

44  Gone!  Your  ambitions  gone?  Why,  they  are  a part 
and  parcel  of  yourself.  You  have  always  taught  me  so. 
Without  ambition  what  is  life?  Who  would  desire  to  live 
from  day  to  day  without  work  and  without  hope?  They 
are  your  own  words,  George.  You  have  said  them  a 
thousand  times.  And  now  you  tell  me  that  you  are 
changed.” 

44  Yes,  I am  changed.” 

44  Changed — in  everything,  George?” 

He  hesitated.  He  made  no  reply. 

44  If  you  are  so  much  changed,”  she  went  on,  44  where  is 
the  George  to  whom  I am  engaged?” 

He  hesitated  still.  Then  he  said,  slowly  and  painfully: 
44  I am  quite  changed.  That  is  true.  I don’t  seem  some- 
how to  care  so  much  for  the  career  which  you  and  I have 
so  often  sketched  out  and  dreamed  over.  That  is  the 
change  in  me.  I have  had  enough  of  the  university.  It 
is  only  a continuation  of  school  after  all.  Let  me  be  my 
own  master.  I dare  say  that  the  old  ambitions  will  re- 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


31 


turn.  It  is  as  you  say — well,  the — as  1 used  to  say,  rather 
a pity  to  sit  down  and  do  nothing  all  your  life.  It  is  like 
creating  a new  vice  to  be  handed  down  to  your  children. 
Everything  that  we  do  or  suffer,  you  know,  is  handed 
down  to  our  children.  We  may  make  them  gouty  or 
rheumatic  or  consumptive.  We  may  make  them  lazy  or 
industrious;  we  make  them  drunkards  if  we  choose.” 

44  Well,  yes;  we  can  do  all  these  fine  things,  1 dare  say. 
You  said  something  like  this  in  your  mad  letter.  But,  my 
dear  George,  some  ancestor  of  yours  must  have  been  a 
preacher  of  moral  commonplace  and  you  have  only  just 
found  it  out.  Seriously,  what  does  it  all  mean?  Why  do 
you  go  off  on  heredity?  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
loss  of  your  ambitions  and  the  surrender  of  your  career.” 

66  The  old  ambitions  will  return,  perhaps.  On  the  other 
hand  perhaps  they  will  not.  Why,  Nell,  most  young  men 
who  have  means  are  content  to  sit  down  and  enjoy  life 
their  own  way.  I don't  intend  to  do  nothing.  I shall 
carry  on  work  of  some  kind.  1 dare  say  I shall  find  my 
own  line  some  day,  and  then  you  know  1 can  work  at  it  if 
I feel  so  inclined.”  But  he  looked  as  if  work  no  longer 
interested  him. 

66  This  is  all  new  to  me,”  said  the  girl.  66 1 can  not  tell 
what  has  worked  this  change.” 

44  What  is  it  worth — that  career  of  which  we  talked  so 
much?  Wrangling  and  brawling  in  an  unmannerly  House 
of  Commons;  personal  abuse  in  the  papers;  servitude  to  a 
party;  the  surrender  of  conscience  and  honor — ” 

66  All  this  is  new,”  the  girl  repeated;  64  not  a word  to 
prepare  me  for  this  change.” 

44  You  will  agree  with  me,”  he  went  on,  speaking  in  a 
constrained  and  harsh  voice,  44  when  you  think  things  over. 
We  will  give  up  all  the  foolish  ambitions  and  let  the  world 
take  care  of  itself.  What  is  the  world  to  us?  What  has 
the  world  done  for  us?  Why  should  we  do  anything  for 
the  world?” 


- : 

3 2 THE  DEMONIAC. 

Yet  a faltering  in  his  voice.  It  was  as  if  the  new  man 
had  no  belief  in  himself.  Strange — what  had  come  over 
George?  The  girl  was  bewildered. 

“ 1 do  not  understand,”  she  said  again. 

66  Give  up  your  own  idle  dreams,  Nell.  What  does  it 
matter  whether  you  get  a first-class  or  not?  Think  no 
more  about  these  trifles.  Let  us  enjoy  the  world.  We 
are  young.  The  world  belongs  to  the  rich  and  to  the 
young.  Let  us  enjoy  the  world.” 

Again  it  was  as  if  he  did  not  believe  his  own  words. 
There  was  no  ring  of  conviction  in  them.  George  was 
quite — quite  changed.  At  any  rate,  whatever  he  used  to 
say  he  used  to  believe.  The  girl  blushed  a rosy  red.  It 
was  because  she  was  forming  a most  portentous  resolution. 

‘‘If  you  have  abandoned  your  ambitions,”  she  said, 
slowly,  “ you  have  abandoned  yourself.  You  tell  me  that 
nothing  has  happened.  Why,  1 have  lost  my  old  friend — 
my  old  companion — my  ” — her  voice  shook— “ my  lover!” 

“ No,  Nellie,  not  that.”  Again  no  sincerity.  His  face 
was  unmoved.  Nay,  she  even  thought  that  there  was  a 
look  of  relief  in  his  eyes  as  if  he  was  actually  pleased  at  his 
own  dismissal. 

“ He  is  gone,”  she  went  on.  “ Well,  when  he  returns 
to  himself  he  will  perhaps  come  to  see  me  again.  Till 
then  I do  not  desire  to  see  him  or  any  substitute  of  him  or 
any  person  parading  under  his  name.  Do  you  understand 
— pretender?” 

“I  believe  I understand.” 

“ Tell  the  real  George  that  1 am  still  his.  I belong  to 
him  whether  he  returns  or  whether  he  does  not  until  he 
himself  sends  me  a release.” 

“ May  not  I give  you  release?” 

“ Certainly  not,  sir.  You  are  not  George  Atheling.  1 
must  hear  it  from  my  old  companion,  from  my  lover,  from 
himself.” 

She  turned  and  walked  out  of  the  library  with  a dignity 


THE  DEM  OK  I AC. 


33 


beyond  her  years.  George  made  no  effort,  even  by  gesture 
or  by  word,  to  stop  her. 

“ It  was  inevitable,”  he  said,  when  the  door  closed  be- 
hind her;  44  it  was  inevitable.”  He  sighed;  unmanly  tears 
filled  his  eyes.  44 1 had  to  do  it.  I have  been  cruel,  cold, 
lying,  but  it  had  to  be  done.  I am  a brute  and  a cad,  but 
it  was  forced  upon  me.  Poor  child,  it’s  a dreadful  blow 
to  her.  But  it  had  to  be  done  some  time — the  sooner  the 
better.  She  is  only  eighteen  and  she  will  get  over  it  in 

time.  She  will  forget  me  and  fall  in  love  with — ” He 
stamped  his  foot  and  cursed  that  unknown  lover  of  his  im- 
agination. 44  Well,  all  is  gone  now — freedom,  honor,  am- 
bition, love — nothing  left  but  money  to  buy  the  stuff  that 
is  killing  me  and  strength  to  prolong  the  agony,  unless  I 
end  it— yes,  yes,  end  it  on  the  voluntary  principle.” 

He  went  out  and  sought  the  post-office,  whence  he  dis- 
patched a telegram  to  his  servant,  the  faithful  Mavis. 

At  luncheon-time  Elinor  had  a headache  and  remained 
in  her  own  room.  A telegram  arrived  for  Mr.  Atheling. 

44  Fortunate,”  he  said,  44  that  1 was  not  out  shooting. 
I must  return  to  London  immediately.” 

44  Immediately,”  said  Mrs.  Thanet.  “But  you  will 
come  back  as  soon  as  you  can?” 

44  As  soon  as  I can,”  George  repeated,  mechanically. 
44  And  now  I have  only  just  time  to  catch  the  half  past 
two  train  if  1 go  at  once.” 

Upstairs  Elinor  sat  alone,  as  miserable  as  a girl  under 
these  sad  circumstances  can  expect;  to  be.  She  had  lost 
her  lover  and  her  old  familiar  friend. 

She  was  a clear-headed  girl,  and  under  no  illusions.  She 
perceived  that  for  some  reason  or  other  he  wished  to  break 
off  the  engagement.  His  words,  his  looks,  his  manner,  all 
showed  that  he  desired  to  be  free.  Well — she  had  set  him 
free.  She  expected  now  that  he  would  write  her  a letter 
of  release. 

She  told  her  mother  that  George  had  altered  his  views 
2 


34 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


of  life,  and  in  a way  so  important  that  for  the  present  there 
must  be  no  further  talk  about  him.  Meantime,  she  said 
that  unless  George  released  her  she  was  still  bound  to  him. 
And  she  was  as  miserable  as  a girl  under  such  circum- 
stances can  expect  to  be.  But  the  Latin  prose  which  she 
still  continued  diverted  her  thoughts,  and  the  near  pros- 
pect of  Newnham  sustained  her.  She  needed  both  support 
and  diversion,  because  George  made  no  sign  and  sent  her 
no  release. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  PHYSICIAN. 

44  Yes,”  said  the  physician — the  idiomatic  64  yes  ” which 
does  not  mean  assent  or  promise  or  anything  of  that  kind, 
but  encourages  the  other  man  to  continue. 

The  other  man  was  George.  He  was  doing  what  he 
ought  to  have  done  at  the  very  outset — consulting  a man 
of  science,  a specialist  in  nervous  disorders. 

44  Well,  1 have  come  to  tell  you  the  facts  in  confidence.” 

44  Nonsense,”  said  the  physician.  44  Everybody  tells  me 
in  confidence.  I am  a father  confessor  in  general.  This 
room  is  a confessional.” 

“Of  course,  1 beg  your  pardon.  1 thought  I should 
like  to  see  somebody,  though  I doubt  whether  any  one  can 
help  me.” 

“ Go  on,  young  gentleman — again — let  us  hear  the 
facts.  You  are  suffering  from  drink  craving,  1 gather.” 

George  narrated  the  whole  case.  Let  us  dq  him  justice. 
He  told  everything  exactly.  He  concealed  nothing;  not 
his  own  cowardly  want  of  will;  not  his  reliance  on  the 
secrecy  of  his  servant;  nothing.  He  sat  in  the  chair  of 
suspense,  the  chair  of  anxiety,  the  chair  of  the  patient;  he 
made;  plenary  confession. 

“You  have  told  me  everything?”  said  the  physician. 

44  Everything.  Can  you  give  me  any  hope?” 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


35 


The  physician  was  old.  He  looked  with  pity  on  this 
young  man.  6 6 There  is  always/*  he  said,  benevolently, 
“ hope— for  the  patient/* 

“ Not  always,  I suppose,  for  the  physician.** 

“For  the  physician/*  the  man  of  science  repeated, 
“ not  always.  For  the  patient  always.  Hope,  young  gen- 
tleman, is  a great  medicine.** 

“ Tell  me  the  worst,  doctor.** 

The  patient  was  at  his  lowest  point  of  despondency. 
He  reached,  as  you  will  hear,  a lower  point  of  submission, 
but  never  a lower  point  of  despondency.  It  was  after  his 
interview  with  Elinor.  He  had  begun  to  realize  the  dreari- 
ness of  life  when  there  is  nothing  to  work  for,  nothing  to 
hope.  What  is  the  use  of  reading  or  work  of  any  kind 
when  one  has  been  ordered  at  the  age  of  twenty-one  to  re- 
tire into  obscurity,  sit  down  and  take  no  more  part  in  any- 
thing? 

“ The  worst?  You  know  it.  As  for  hope,  it  depends 
upon  yourself.  Your  case  is  serious.  Yet  you  are  young, 
and  you  should  be  brave.  It  has  now  gone  on  for  some 
time,  and  has  assumed  already  an  apparent  mastery.  Yet, 
again,  you  are  young  and  you  should  be  courageous.  It  is 
an  hereditary  vitium — your  grandfather,  you  tell  me — and 
it  certainly  broke  out  without  the  least  warning,  just  as 
one  observes  in  asthma  and  other  nervous  disorders.  It  is 
a very  hereditary  thing.  Yes,  you  are  seized  with  an  irre- 
sistible craving  for  drink.** 

“ Irresistible  as  the  flood  of  Niagara.** 

“You  seem  to  have  no  power  of  resistance.  You  are 
driven  like  a sheep.** 

“ Like  a silly  sheep.** 

“You  fall  to  drinking  furiously — vehemently.  You 
drink  enormous  quantities  of  the  strongest  spirits;  you 
drink  enough  to  kill  you  at  ordinary  times.  In  a day  or 
two  the  fit  passes.  Yet,  all  this  time  your  will  is  par- 
alyzed.** 


86 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


44  The  mind  refuses  to  work.  It  is  possession.” 

44  Call  it  so  if  you  please.” 

44  1 can  not  think  but  the  brain  goes  on  working  of  its 
own  accord.  I think  a madman's  brain  may  work  in  the 
same  manner.  ” 

44  Undoubtedly.” 

6 6 It  presents  one  with  a never-ending  procession  of  gob- 
lins; images  dance  and  caper — anything  but  walk — before 
my  eyes;  they  are  creatures  that  have  no  shape  or  form 
that  one  ever  saw;  they  have  heads  of  animals;  they  have 
human  faces  which  mock  and  jeer;  they  have  eyes  which 
threaten  and  haunt.  I hear  voices  in  unknown  tongues, 
but  they  are  hostile  voices.  Doctor,  I can  not  explain  to 
you  half  the  horrors  which  attend  the  close  of  one  of  these 
attacks.  ” 

66  The  common  sort  call  them  simply  the  horrors.” 

44  Between  the  attacks,  as  at  this  moment,  I feel  no  de- 
sire for  drink  at  all.  1 loathe  it  for  the  memory  of  these 
sufferings.  When  the  attack  begins  the  loathing  is  turned 
into  craving.  ” 

44  You  can  always  keep  a fire  alight  by  feeding  it.” 

44  I think  of  nothing  but  to  satisfy  the  craving.” 

44  Have  your  friends  advised  you?” 

44  No  one  knows  anything  about  it.  No  one  suspects. 
I have  left  Cambridge  in  order  not  to  be  found  out.  My 
gyp,  who  knows,  I first  silenced  by  a bribe  and  have  since 
taken  into  my  service.  He  never  leaves  me.  ” 

44  Ah!”  The  physician  looked  dubious.  44  A constant 
attendant  is  useful  in  certain  cases.  But  he  should  be  a 
judicious  person,  acting  under  instructions,  else — ” 

44 1 have  taken  chambers  in  town.  None  of  my  friends 
know  my  address — I go  nowhere.  For  greater  security  I 
have  a cottage  not  far  from  London  in  a lonely  spot  where 
I take  refuge  whenever  I have  warning.  My  man,  Mavis, 
knows  the  symptoms  by  this  time.  He  watches  for  them 
like  a cat  for  a mouse.  At  the  first  appearance  of  the 


THE  DEMONIAC.  37 

symptoms  he  hurries  me  off  to  my  cottage.  With  no  one 
in  the  place  except  ourselves  I have  it  out.” 

44  This  useful  attendant  takes  good  care  that  the  stuff 
shall  be  in  readiness,  I suppose.  ” 

44  Oh,  yes — and  plenty  of  it.  ” 

44  May  I ask  if  the  good  man  drinks  with  you  in  a 
friendly  way?” 

George  changed  color. 

“On  such  occasions,”  he  said,  46  what  can  it  matter? 
At  all  other  times  he  is  a respectful  and  obedient  servant. 
At  the  cottage  he  is— what  you  please — a brother  tosspot.” 
44  Craving  may  be  infectious.  Young  gentleman,  have 
you  never  even  tried  to  fight  against  it?” 

44  Fight  against  it?  Why,  the  thing  is  a devil!  Fight 
against  it?  You  can't  fight  a devil.  When  first  he  flew 
at  my  throat  I thought  it  was  the  devil.  Now  I am  cer- 
tain of  it.  You  may  try  to  fight  a devil  if  you  like,  but 
he  will  best  you,  and  that  very  soon.  ” 

44  There  used  to  be  a few  old-fashioned  ideas  on  that 
subject,”  said  the  physician,  44  which  1 would  recommend 
you  to  consider.  The  phraseology  is  antiquated,  but  you 
could,  perhaps,  clothe  them  anew.” 

44  Yes,  it  is  easy  for  you  to  talk.  One  might  have  ex- 
pected this  advice.  But  you  never  had  such  a devil  to 
fight — you  never  had  such  a devil.” 

The  physician,  who  was  old  and  experienced,  shook  his 
head  as  one  who  could  tell  very  good  stories  about  the 
devil  and  of  man's  duels  with  him  on  occasion  and  at 
proper  times. 

44  I’m  quite  sure  you  never  knew  such  a devil.  Why, 
this  one  draws  and  drags  a man  With  ropes;  he  parches  his 
throat  and  sets  it  on  fire;  he  makes  him  gasp  and  catch 
his  breath.  When  he  has  become  like  one  lost  in  a hot 
and  sandy  desert  he  gives  him  ” — the  young  man's  face 
and  gestures  showed  that  it  was  his  own  experience  that  he 
was  describing — 4 4 he  gives  him,”  he  gasped  and  drew  a 


38 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


long  breath,  “ a bottle— ah! — a heavenly,  beautiful  bottle 
— ah! — filled  full — it  can’t  be  too  full — ah! — with  brandy, 
whisky — anything,  and  he  bids  him  drink  and  be  happy. 
Fight  such  a devil  as  that?  Doctor,  I don’t  believe  that 
anybody  ever  did  fight  him.  You  know  about  Christian’s 
famous  fight  in  the  valley — well,  if  Apollyon  had  been 
armed  with  a fiery  furnace  to  ram  down  Christian’s  throat 
and  a bottle  to  give  him  afterward,  Apollyon  would  have 
won.  When  he  is  away  1 feel  strong.  I am  resolved  to 
fight  him.  I am  quite  resolute  and  determined.  When 
he  comes  1 let  my  weapons  fall — shield  and  lance  and 
sword — I am  a prisoner.  ” 

He  sunk  back  in  his  chair,  despairing. 

“We  should  be  exorcised  by  bell,  book,  and  candle,” 
said  the  physician.  “ In  the  days  of  faith  that  would  have 
been  practicable.  Yes,  in  the  old  days  you  would  have 
been  healed  by  faith.  The  devil  would  have  been  driven 
out  of  you.  Then  you  would  have  gone  home  calm  and 
easy.  When  the  next  attack  came  you  would  have  said, 
‘ This  is  not  the  old  thing.  The  devil  has  been  driven 
out.  This  is  nothing  to  trouble  me,  only  a cold  in  the 
head,  a touch  of  fever,  a little  sore  throat.  ’ There  was 
reason  in  the  method  of  the  priests.  It  worked  well. 
They  knew  what  they  were  about.  You  believe,  and  the 
devil  is  driven  away.  You  do  not  believe,  and  he  stays.” 

“ Well,  since  1 do  not  believe.” 

“ The  case  is  less  simple  by  reason  of  your  unbelief. 
You  have  no  fight  left  in  you,  that  is  plain.  Nerve  and 
will  are  broken.  You  can  make  no  resistance.  What 
should  have  been  beaten  back  as  a suggestion  of  evil  comes 
in  the  shape  of  a lord  and  master.” 

“It  does.” 

“ Then  you  must  find  some  one  to  fight  the  devil  for 
you.  Your  factotum — your  brother  tosspot,  your  boon 
companion,  this  ancient  gyp — can  he  fight  him  for  you?” 

“ Certainly  not.  He  is  paid  to  keep  me  out  of  harm 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


39 


and  beyond  the  reach  of  discovery.  That  is  all  he  can  do. 
Once  he  refused  to  bring  me  more.  He  won't  do  that 
again." 

“ Some  one  else,  then." 

The  young  man  rose  from  his  chair.  66  Look  at  me, 
doctor,"  he  said,  “do  I look  like  a man  easy  to  tackle? 
•Remember  that  if  any  one  comes  to  fight  the  devil  for  me 
he  will  have  to  fight  the  devil  and  me  as  well,  both  to- 
gether, for  the  devil  is  inside  of  me  then,  and  I have  the 
strength  of  twenty." 

You  have  seen  that  this  young  man  was  no  puny  creat- 
ure, but  quite  the  reverse.  We  are  accustomed  to  think 
that  persons  afflicted  with  such  a dreadful  infirmity  are 
generally  wretched  creatures  of  weak  frame  and  feeble 
heads — what  the  London  slang  calls  half  naked — the  chil- 
dren of  rickety  parents.  Physicians  know  better.  This 
disease  singles  out  the  strongest  and  best  as  well  as  the 
weakest  and  worst.  It  is  as  impartial  as  the  sunshine,  it 
is  as  free  from  favoritism  as  rheumatism,  gout,  asthma  or 
any  other  disease  by  which  mankind  is  plagued  because  of 
ignorance.  It  drags  down,  slowly  and  swiftly,  the  clearest 
intellect;  it  humbles  the  finest  scholar;  it  ruins  the  most 
brilliant  wit;  it  corrupts  the  brain  of  the  noblest  poet;  it 
knows  no  respect  for  crowned  heads  and  shows  no  pity  for 
paupers.  Consider  this  case — this  splendid  young  man, 
this  stalwart  frame,  this  active  brain,  this  masterpiece  of 
nature.  No  pity;  ruthless  destruction  of  what  would  have 
been  a noble  life,  ruin  of  the  fairest  prospects.  No  pity. 
None.  And  all  because  men  are  so  ignorant  that  they  can 
not  avert  hereditary  disease — so  ignorant  that  they  go  on 
creating  hereditary  disease.  Ignorance,  my  brothers,  igno- 
rance it  is  which  fills  our  hospitals  and  our  prisons,  that 
cuts  short  our  lives  and  plagues  with  grievous  pains  and 
sufferings — ignorance,  nothing  more. 

“ You  look  so  big  and  so  strong,  young  man,  that  I can 
not  believe  you  to  be  such  an  arrant  coward." 


40 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


George  flushed  up,  but  he  restrained  himself. 

“A  coward/ 9 repeated  the  physician.  “Say  that  to 
yourself  every  time  you  rush  to  the  whisky  bottle.  A cow- 
ard. You  do  well  to  take  your  name  off  the  college  books 
and  break  off  your  engagement.  You  are  not  fit  to  asso- 
ciate with  gentlemen  or  to  marry  a gentlewoman.  ” 

“ It  is  true,”  George  murmured.  “ It  is  quite  true.” 

“ Some  poor  creatures  like  yourself  who  have  not  the 
resolution  to  bear  any  pain,  however  fleeting,  seek  refuge 
in  an  asylum.  Here  they  may  get  looked  after  and  kept 
from  drink.  You  would  not,  you  would  bribe  the  serv- 
ants; you  are  too  rich  for  the  honesty  of  any  servants. 
There  is,  however,  one  thing  that  you  might  do.  Your 
only  chance,  1 believe,  unless  you  can  muster  up  courage, 
is  to  be  placed  in  some  position  where  drink  is  absolutely 
unattainable.  For  instance,  a temperance  ship,  where  no 
drink  is  carried  on  board  at  all.  There  are  such  ships. 
You  might  take  a voyage  to  New  Zealand  and  back  in 
such  a ship.” 

The  young  man  shook  his  head. 

“ Consider.  When  the  attack  seized  you  it  would  neces- 
sarily spend  itself  in  vain  because  there  would  be  nothing 
to  gratify  and  feed  the  craving.  The  second  attack  would 
be  shorter  and  would  entail  less  suffering.  So  with  the 
third — ” 

“ Doctor,  it  would  be  of  no  use.  There  would  certainly 
be  drink  somewhere  on  board  and  I should  get  it.  ” 

“Again,  consider  the  plan.  You  are  rich.  You  can 
afford  to  have  a guardian,  or  keeper.  I will  find  you  a 
young  medical  man  who  would  never  leave  you.” 

‘ Doctor,”  the  young  man  sprung  to  his  feet  with  the 
appearance  of  tremendous  resolution,  “ I tell  you  what  1 
will  do.  This  will  be  ever  so  much  better  than  going  as  a 
guarded  passenger,  a mark  of  scorn  and  contempt.  I am 
rich.  I would  hire  or  buy  a boat  for  myself  and  1 will  sail 
roun<£  the  world.  Not  a drop  of  drink  of  any  kind  shall 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


41 


be  put  on  board  that  boat.  I will  take  your  young  medico 
with  me.  1 will  only  land  between  the  attacks,  when  I 
can  safely  venture.  Will  that  satisfy  you?” 

44  Clearly,  if  there  is  no  drink  to  be  had,  it  will  be  of  no 
use  craving  for  it.  Well- — and  you  will  give  over  craving 
for  it  if  you  really  and  honestly  carry-out  this  plan — ” 

44  Eeally  and  honestly  I will.  1 swear  1 will,  whatever 
it  costs  me.  ” 

46  Very  good,  indeed.  Nothing  could  be  better.  Mean- 
time leave  that  man  of  yours  at  home — ” 

44  I can  hardly  do  that.  Mavis  is  necessary  to  me.  He 
knows  exactly  what  I want — apart,  I mean — from  the 
times  of — ” 

44  Well,  if,  as  I say,  you  are  strong  enough  to  insist  on 
there  being  no  drink  on  board  the  ship  at  all — 99 

44 1 am  strong  enough  for  that,  at  any  rate,  when  the 
time  comes,  doctor— you  must  let  that  young  medical  man 
be  strong — mind — strong.  For  I shall  have  the  strength 
of  a madman.” 

44  He  shall  be,”  said  the  physician,  44  as  strong  as  nat- 
ure and  athletics  can  make  him.  But  be  resolute — let 
nothing  enter  the  ship — neither  spirits  nor  wine  nor  beer.” 
44  Ulysses  stuffed  the  ears  of  the  sailors,”  said  the  young 
man,  thoughtfully,  44  with  wax,  so  that  they  should  not 
hear  the  song  of  the  sirens,  and  then  the  sailors  tied 
Ulysses  to  the  mast,  so  that  he  heard,  but  could  not  obey. 
If  they  will  tie  me  with  iron  chains  to  the  mainmast — 
nothing  short  of  iron  chains  will  do — 99 

44  But  there  will  be  no  drink  on  board.  Remember  that 
the  songs  of  the  sirens  will  be  only  a mockery  to  you. 
They  may  invite  you  to  drink,  but  they  will  give  you  noth- 
ing to  drink. 99 + 

44  You  don't  know  this  devil  of  mine.  He  is  sure  to 
bring  some  on  board,  and  if  it  is  there  I must  get  it  some- 
how. Remember,  doctor,  my  guardian  must  never  leave 
me  alone,  -He  must  bind  me  and  tie  me  down  on  deck 


42 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


and  set  watch  over  me  clay  and  night.  He  must  not  trust 
any  one — mind,  no  one — not  the  captain,  whoever  he  may 
be,  nor  the  steward,  nor  my  own  man,  even.  He  must 
never  cease  watching.” 

“I  will  give  him  the  strictest  instructions.  You  are 
right  to  mistrust  yourself.  When  will  your  preparations 
be  completed?” 

“ 1 don't  know.  I dare  say  it  will  prove  of  no  use,”  he 
said,  despondingly.  “ However,  it  shall  be  tried.  Mavis 
— my  man — shall  set  to  work  at  once,  doctor.  1 will 
really  try  your  experiment,  but  I doubt — I doubt.  You 
don't  know  this  devil  of  mine.  He  is  the  most  crafty,  the 
most  subtle,  the  most  determined  devil  you  ever  heard 
of.”  He  laughed,  but  not  mirthfully. 

“ He  has  got  to  do  with  a man  who  has  lost  his  nerve 
and  his  will,”  said  the  physician. 

“ Find  me  the  nerve  and  the  will  of  somebody  else  then; 
but  I doubt — I doubt.  My  devil  is  too  cunning.” 


CHAPTER  Y. 

OF  THE  VOYAGE. 

George  went  home.  The  more  he  thought  of  this  pro- 
jected voyage  the  more  it  pleased  his  imagination.  When 
there  was  no  drink  to  be  had  there  could  be  no  craving. 
It  would  be  senseless.  As  well  long  for  the  luxuries  of  the 
club  from  the  day-room  of  a work-house. 

First,  however,  he  would  make  that  confession  to  Eli- 
nor. She  should  not  think  that  he  had  deliberately  set 
himself  to  wound  and  pain  her  into  sending  him  away. 
He  wrote: 

6C  My  dear  Nellie, — You  told  me  on  Monday  to  re- 
turn to  you  when  I could  go  back  to  you  in  the  guise  and 
semblance  of  your  old  friend.  I denied  at  the  time  your 
charge  that  something  must  have  happened.  I will  tell 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


43 


you  plainly  what  has  happened.  1 have  become  in  four 
months  one  of  those  unhappy  men  whom  I was  wont  to 
despise — called  confirmed  drunkards.  1 kept  from  you  all 
the  summer,  hoping  that  the  habit  would  pass  away.  It 
has  not  passed  away.  It  is,  on  the  contrary,  stronger  than 
ever,  and  now  I believe  that  I shall  be  a slave  for  life.  If 
it  is  any  excuse,  I might  plead  that  the  vice  is  hereditary, 
but  the  physician  whom  1 have  consulted  will  not  allow 
that  this  is  an  excuse.  The  real  fault  is  my  own  disgrace- 
ful cowardice.  I went  to  you  the  other  day  resolved  upon 
telling  you  the  exact  truth.  I could  not.  Therefore  1 in- 
sulted and  pained  you  beyond  endurance.  You  said  that 
you  would  continue  to  regard  yourself  as  engaged  to  me 
until  1 gave  you  release.  Take  your  release.  You  are 
free.  Forget  me  as  soon  as  you  can  and  do  not  blame  me 
more  than  you  can  help. 

66 1 am  going  to  try  the  effect  of  a long  voyage.  If  that 
succeeds — which  I doubt — 1 will  visit  you  on  my  return  as 
an  old  friend,  no  longer  a lover.  If  it  does  not  succeed  1 
shall  never  write  to  you  or  see  you  again. 

“ George  Humphrey  Atheling.  " 

He  wrote  this  letter,  folded  it,  stamped  it,  and  left  it  on 
his  table  to  be  posted.  Finding  it  there  two  or  three  hours 
later,  and  remembering  that  his  servant  was  gone  out  and 
might  be  gone  out  all  day,  he  dropped  it  into  the  breast- 
pocket of  an  overcoat. 

There  it  lay  while  the  writer  of  it  was  traveling  round 
about  the  world  and  afterward — all  unregarded  and  for- 
gotten. 

So  poor  Elinor  never  got  her  release  at  all. 

This  done  he  opened  his  biggest  atlas  at  the  map  of  the 
world — nothing  less  than  that  would  do — and  began  to 
consider  the  course  he  should  steer.  There's  something 
exciting  about  a voyage  round  the  world,  though  so  many 
undertake  it  every  year  and  seem  to  think  little  of  it.  It 


44 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


no  longer  takes  the  old  fashioned  three  years.  But  in  a 
yacht  of  your  own,  which  does  not  race  from  point  to 
point,  you  may  still  spend  a good  deal  of  time  in  going 
round  the  world.  It  would  cost  him  a great  deal,  no  doubt, 
still  if  the  object  was  gained!  No  drink  to  be  got  on  board 
the  ship.  Splendid!  Like  going  into  action  with  your 
colors  nailed  to  the  mast,  or  like  defending  a beleaguered 
city  without  so  much  as  a white  pocket-handkerchief 
to  fly. 

What  kind  of  a ship  should  he  want?  A sailing  yacht 
for  choice.  But  one  would  not  wish  to  be  becalmed  in  the 
doldrums  or  to  be  cast  nway  on  a lee  shore.  An  auxiliary 
screw;  that  was  the  thing.  When  he  had  got  a ship  he 
must  find  a master  to  navigate  her.  How  does  one  look 
for  masters?  It  is  a very  important  thing  to  find  a good 
master.  He  must  be  a capabie  person;  skilled  in  his  call- 
ing, accustomed  to  command  men;  a sober  man  himself, 
even  a total  abstainer;  a man  of  good  temper;  a genial 
man,  cheerful  and  jocund,  able  to  tell  a good  story.  It 
would  be  very  difficult  to  find  such  a master.  Then  there 
was  the  crew.  Where  does  one  gather  a crew?  This  must 
be  a picked  crew.  Great  care  must  be  taken  in  finding 
such  a crew.  Again,  the  provisions  for  so  long  a voyage. 
No  strong  drink,  of  course;  but  every  other  kind  of  provis- 
ion. There  must  be  immense  quantities  of  provisions  for 
so  long  a voyage.  Who  thinks  of  everything?  Would  the 
ship  hold  all  that  he  wanted  for  so  long  a voyage?  One 
might  as  well  go  to  the  army  and  navy  stores  and  order  en 
Uoc  everything  they  have  got  in  stock.  Except  the 
drink,  of  course.  No  drink  on  board  this  ship.  No 
drink.  Certainly  no  drink  at  all. 

While  he  was  thinking  of  these  things  his  servant. 
Mavis,  the  ex-gyp,  opened  the  door  softly  and  came  in. 

“ 1 beg  your  pardon,  sir/5  he  said,  standing  beside  his 
master,  “ may  I ask  what  the  doctor  said?” 

“ Oh,  is  that  you.  Mavis?  I did  not  hear  you  come  in. 


THE  DEMOHIAC.  45 

Yes.  The  doctor  says  that  the  only  way  out  of  it  is  to 
fight  the. thing.” 

Mavis  coughed  slightly,  and  the  ghost  of  a smile  played 
upon  his  lips. 

“To  fight  the  thing,  Mavis,”  George  repeated,  reso- 
lutely. 

“ Very  good,  sir,”  said  Mavis. 

“ As  for  giving  in  at  once — making  off  to  the  cottage, 
surrendering  without  the  firing  of  a shot — hauling  down 
your  colors — he's  dead  against  it.  Rank  cowardice,  that 
is.” 

“ Yes,  sir,”  Mavis  smiled  again. 

“ There  are  two  ways  open.  I may  go  into  a home, 
which  is  always  dangerous,  because  people  may  be  bribed. 
I believe  you  would  even  climb  upon  the  roof  and  lower 
the  bottles  down  the  chimney  if  you  knew  I was  in 
trouble.” 

“T  would,  sir,”  said  Mavis,  loyally. 

“ Or  1 might  go  for  a long  voyage  on  board  a ship  where 
there  was  no  drink — not  a drop  of  drink  on  board.” 

“ Then  you  would  be  quite  safe,  sir.” 

“ Quite  safe.” 

“ To  go  mad  or  throw  yourself  overboard.” 

“Not  at  all.  Mavis.  I am  going  to  take  with  me  a 
young  medical  man,  a strapping  big  fellow,  to  look  after 
me.  After  the  first  attack  is  met  there  will  be  less 
trouble,  you  see,  with  the  second,  still  less  with  the  third, 
and  so  on  to  the  end.” 

“ Very  good,  sir,”  said  Mavis. 

“ Yes,  1 have  made  up  my  mind.  1 will  hire  a steam 
yacht  big  enough  for  the  voyage,  and  I will  sail  all  around 
the  world — without  one  single  drop  of  drink  on  board. 
You  understand  that.  Mavis?” 

“ Yes,  sir.  Without  one  drop  of  drink  on  board.” 

“ If  that  won't  set  me  right  again  nothing  will.” 

“ Nothing  will,”  echoed  his  servant. 


46 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


“ Very  good,  then.  Do  you  go  at  once — as  soon  as  you 
can — let  us  lose  no  time — to  the  shop  where  they  keep 
ships  on  sale  or  hire.  I suppose  it  is  somewhere  down  the 
river.  Find  me  one.  Get  a good  one  while  you  are  about 
it.  Cheaper,  1 should  say,  to  hire  than  to  buy,  and  less 
on  our  minds  in  case  of  her  capsizing  or  foundering  on  the 
ocean/ ’ 

“ Very  good,  sir.  I will  go  this  very  morning.” 

“ Find  out  what  the  ship  will  cost  and — and — all  about 
her.  Be  careful  about  her  age.  I know  how  to  tell  the 
age  of  a horse,  but  as  for  that  of  a ship  1 can't  advise. 
Take  counsel.  She  must  be  big  enough  to  cross  the  At- 
lantic, in  fact,  to  sail  all  round  the  earthly  ball.  You  will 
then  find  out  other  shops  where  they  keep  captains,  stew- 
ards, ships'  crews  and  so  forth,  and  learn  how  much  it  will 
take  to  engage  them.  You  will  next  find  out  how  much 
it  will  cost  to  victual  the  ship  and  who  undertakes  this 
kind  of  business.  But  mind,  captain  and  crew  must  be  all 
temperance  men;  there  is  not  to  be  one  single  drop  of 
drink — mind — not  one  single  drop  of  drink  put  on  board 
on  any  pretext  whatever.  You  yourself  have  got  to  be  a 
total  abstainer  for  the  whole  voyage.'' 

“I  understand,  sir.  No  drink.  Are  we  likely,”  he 
asked,  quietly,  but  his  master  understood,  “ ever  to  be  far 
from  the  nearest  port  where  they  sell  drink — in  case.” 
“We  may  be  weeks  from  such  a port.” 

“ Oh,”  said  Mavis,  smiling,  unseen  by  his  master. 

“ No  drink  on  board,”  George  repeated.  “ We  are 
going  on  a temperance  voyage.  Nobody  on  board  is  to 
have  any  drink  at  all.  Coffee  instead  of  rum — no  drink,” 
Somehow  the  force  of  his  order  seemed  weakened  by  its 
repetition. 

“Very  good,  sir,”  said  Mavis.  “As  you  please  to 
direct.  I beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  he  added,  “ but — if  there 
is  to  be  no  drink — single-handed  1 could  not — ” 

“ Didn't  I tell  you?  There  will  be  a medical  man  on 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


47 


board.  Single-handed  you  could  not  tackle  the  case. 
There  will  be  a devil  of  a fight  when  the  time  comes. 
Mavis.” 

46 1 expect  there  will,  sir.” 

44  Between  us  we  shall  floor  the  devil.  Once  he  is  floored 
— well,  he  is  floored,  1 believe.”  He  rubbed  his  hands 
hopefully. 

44  Yes,  sir,  so  1 believe,”  said  Mavis.  44  Once  floored.” 
44  As  he  must  be  when  there  is  no  drink.  Hark  ye. 
Mavis.  There  is  to  be  a determined  effort.  I’ve  got  to 
cure  myself  now  or  never.  Bring  me  home  with  a good 
record  and  1 will  give  you  two  hundred  pounds.  Make  a 
note  of  that.  Two  hundred  pounds.  It  shall  be  worth 
your  while  to  make  the  job  complete.” 

44  Thank  you,  sir,”  said  the  man.  44 1 will  do  my  best 
to  make  the  job  complete.  ” As  he  was  unseen  by  his 
master  he  grinned.  44  Make  it  complete  once  for  all,”  he 
repeated. 

44  That’s  understood,  then.  In  case  of  accident,  1 shall 
leave  provision  in  my  will  to  that  effect.  And  now,  Mavis, 
as  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost,  you  had  better  go  away  and 
look  after  that  ship  at  once.” 

44  A temperance  ship,”  said  Mavis.  “Owners,  pas- 
sengers, captain,  officers  and  crew  all  temperance  men — 
men  who  have  taken  the  pledge — Good  Templars  and 
such.” 

44  That’s  the  order.” 

44  And  not  a drop  of  drink  on  board?” 

44  Not  a single  drop,”  said  the  master.  44  None  to  be 
put  on  board  at  the  beginning.  None  to  be  taken  on 
board  at  any  port.  ” 

44  Very  good,  sir.  I will  make  this  job  complete.” 

He  went  out,  and  on  the  stairs  he  grinned  again. 
44  Complete,”  he  repeated.  44  If  he  is  a servant  now,  he 
shall  be  a slave  before  he  comes  back.  Complete?” 

44  Yes,  1 warrant  the  completeness  of  this  job.” 


48 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


Mavis  was  really  a most  excellent  servant.  There  was 
nothing  which  he  could  not  be  trusted  to  carry  through. 
He  disappeared  daily  for  a certain  period  of  time  and  then 
informed  his  master  that  he  had  arranged  everything  sub- 
ject to  his  approval.  There  was  a lovely  steamer  capable 
of  riding  through  any  conceivable  seas,  almost  new,  proved, 
completely  provided,  and  ready  to  take  in  coal  at  once. 
She  was  of  seven  hundred  tons,  and  had  already  made  two 
voyages. 

George  went  down  to  Gravesend  where  she  was  lying. 
On  board  he  found  the  master  mariner  whom  Mavis  pro- 
posed to  engage  as  captain.  A weather-beaten  old  salt  he 
was,  with  a grizzled  beard,  a clear,  blue  eye,  and  a face  of 
the  most  resolute  honesty  that  one  had  ever  seen.  His 
credentials  were  admirable;  he  had,  sailed  over  every  sea 
and  knew  every  port.  He  was  fifty-five  years  of  age  and 
had  been  a sailor  since  he  was  ten. 

46 1 understand,  sir,”  said  this  excellent  old  sea  rover, 
44  that  you  mean  this  to  be  a very  temperance  ship.” 

44 1 mean  more  than  that.  I mean  that  it  is  to  be  a 
ship  without  such  a thing  as  a bottle  of  drink  of  any  kind 
on  board.  ” 

44  Very  good,  sir.  So  Mr.  Mavis  told  me.  As  for  ship- 
ping the  drink,  that’s  the  steward’s  business.  Mine  is  not 
to  let  the  crew  have  any.  For  my  part,”  he  said,  looking 
more  honest  than  words  can  express,  44 1 don't  know  the 
taste  of  rum,  whisky,  gin  or  beer — strong  drink  never 
passed  these  lips  yet.  ” 

44  Indeed,”  said  George.  44  Then  in  that  respect  you 
are  the  very  man  I want.  ” 

Down  below  he  found  waiting  for  him  the  man  whom 
Mavis  proposed  to  engage  as  head  steward,  who  would  be 
purser  as  well  and  responsible  for  all  the  ship’s  stores  and 
provisions. 

This  officer  had  served  in  the  Orient  Line.  Ill-health 
alone  had  caused  him  to  leave  this  service.  He  too  had 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


49 


the  best  of  credentials.  His  manner  was  soft  and  sleek — 
rather  like  that  of  Mavis. 

“A  temperance  voyage,  I learn,  sir,”.Iie  said.  “ I’ve 
been  a temperance  man  myself — a Good  Templar — for 
twenty-five  years.  The  crew  won’t  expect  any  drink.  As 
for  yourself  and  your  friends — ” 

“We  are  all  going  to  be  total  abstainers.  This  is  to  be 
the  first  condition  of  engagement.” 

“Very  good,  sir.  Not  a drop  of  drink  shall  come  on 
board  except  by  your  orders.” 

All  this  was  very  satisfactory.  George  examined  the 
cabins  and  the  saloon,  and  went  down  into  the  engine- 
room.  Everything  was  spick  and  span,  newly  painted  and 
fitted.  The  captain"  laid  out  some  charts  on  the  table. 
They  were  going,  he  said,  to  sail  on  a most  lovely  voyage. 
First,  total  abstinence  the  whole  time— a thing  he  put  first 
of  all.  Next,  for  the  course  of  the  ship.  He  purposed  to 
make  for  the  Azores,  St.  Helena  and  the  Cape,  next  for 
Mauritius,  Point  de  Galles,  Singapore  and  Hong  Kong. 
After  that  the  Pacific  Islands  would  occupy  them  a whole 
year  if  the  chief  chose,  and  so  on — and  so  on.  Nothing  so 
eloquent  as  the  fat  forefinger  of  a skipper  traveling  slowly 
across  a great  chart  pointing  to  unknown  lands  and  strange 
places. 

As  this  forefinger  showed  the  way,  George,  in  imagina- 
tion, saw  himself  free  of  his  burden.  There  could  be  no 
craving  where  there  was  no  drink  to  be  procured.  It 
would  be  a short  fever  quickly  spent.  He  engaged  the 
skipper,  he  engaged  the  chief  steward,  he  authorized  the 
engagement  of  a temperance  crew,  and  the  victualing  of 
the  ship  for  a temperance  voyage. 

Next  for  the  medical  man.  The  physician  was  better 
than  his  word.  “ I have  sent  you,”  he  said,  “ two  instead 
of  one.  This  is  because  of  your  doubt,  which  has  made 
me  doubt.  Perhaps  there  may  be  drink  on  board  after  all. 
In  that  case  it  will  require  at  least  two  men  to  keep  you 


50 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


from  it,  because  you  are  so  big  and  strong.  I therefore 
send  two  young  fellows  highly  recommended.  I advise 
you  to  take  them  both.” 

George  engaged  them  on  the  spot.  They  were  two 
young  giants,  each  as  big  as  himself,  capable  between 
them  of  fighting  their  patient  and  his  devil  combined.  He 
found  that  they  understood  exactly  what  was  wanted. 
They  were  not  to  trust  in  the  giving  of  an  order,  but  to 
look  to  its  execution;  to  watch  that  no  drink,  if  they  could 
prevent  it,  was  brought  on  board,  and  to  take  care  that  in 
any  case  none  was  exhibited  in  the  presence  of  the  chief. 
Especially  they  were  to  be  on  watch  when  the  ship  was  in 
port. 

In  fact,  they  were  zealous,  intelligent  young  men;  they 
understood  that  this  was  a case  involving  important  scien- 
tific issues;  they  saw  that  distinction,  pleasure,  and  profit 
might  all  be  derived  from  the  voyage,  and  they  embarked 
with  light  hearts. 

Finally,  one  fine  morning  in  the  month  of  November 
the  steamer  “ Good  Intent  ” dropped  down  stream  off 
Gravesend  bound  for  all  round  the  world.  On  board  that 
ship  was  a man  afflicted  with  a disease  which  no  medicine 
can  touch;  he  was  to  be  cured  by  the  absence  of  the  thing 
that  feeds  the  disease  and  that  the  disease  constantly 
craves. 

One  is  not  writing  the  log  of  the  “ Good  Intent.” 
Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  ship  did  actually  complete  the 
circumnavigation  of  the  globe  and  brought  back  the  com- 
pany safe  arid  sound  to  port.  What  they  saw,  what  they 
discovered,  what  remarks  they  made,  are  they  not  written 
in  the  Book  of  the  Chronicles? 

About  a year  and  a half  after  the  dispatch  of  this  inter- 
esting scientific  voyage  two  bronzed  and  weather-beaten 
young  men  called  upon  the  learned  physician.  They  were 
both  big  and  strong  men,  good  looking,  too,  but  their 


THE  DEMONIAC.  51 

faces  were  overcast  A cloud,  as  of  anxiety,  sat  upon 

them. 

46  You  have  forgotten  us,”  said  one  of  them.  44  We  are 
the  two  men  you  sent  from  St.  George's  to  attend  Mr. 
Atheling  on  his  voyage.” 

44  Yes,  yes;  I remember  now.  And  how  are  you?  And 
how  did  you  get  on?” 

44  We  are  very  well,  and  we  got  on  very  well.” 

44  It  was  a voyage  which  promised  to  be  very  interest- 
ing.” 

44  It  has  been  deeply  interesting,”  replied  the  first 
speaker. 

44  Scientifically  of  the  highest  importance,”  said  the 
other  young  man. 

44  Ah,  I am  glad  to  hear  it.  First,  was  it  successful?  I 
have  often  thought  about  the  case — obstinate,  hereditary, 
treacherous,  most  difficult.  ” 

44  From  your  point  of  view — no.” 

44  From  ours,”  said  the  other  young  man,  44  most  suc- 
cessful— m<*st  important.” 

44  Where  is  your  patient?  And  is  he  cured?” 

44  He  is  at  his  own  chambers.  And  at  this  moment  he 
is  drunk.” 

44  Drunk?  Then — but  you  will  explain?” 

44  Willingly.  He  is  drunk  now  with  whisky.  On  board 
he  got  drunk  in  the  absence  of  whisky.  ” 

44  Which  leads  us  to  one  great  discovery,”  said  the 
second  young  man. 

44 1 dare  say  1 shall  understand  presently,”  said  the 
physician. 

44  We  went  out  charged  specially  to  keep  him  from 
drink  and  to  watch  him  whenever  he  had  an  attack.” 

44  You  did.  You  were  intrusted  with  a very  important 
mission.  You  had  a great  chance  before  you.  Here  was 
a man  liable  to  attacks  of  craving  for  strong  drink  put  on 
board  a ship  where  there  was  not  a drop  of  strong  drink. 


62 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


and  you  were  to  watch  over  him,  treat  him  as  I suggested 
and  guard  him  day  and  night.  ** 

“ We  were/’  said  the  first  young  man. 

“We  carried  out  our  duty  to  the  letter/*  said  the 
second  young  man.  “ Hence  our  great  discovery,  which 
will  revolutionize — ■** 

“ Pray  go  on/*  said  the  physician,  turning  to  the  other 
man. 

“ Until  the  first  attack  came  on,  and  indeed  between  the 
attacks,  our  patient  wanted  no  watching  because  he  had  no 
desire  for  drink  at  all.  A better  companion,  a better  fel- 
low never  lived.  Then  the  first  attack  came.  ** 

“ Ha!  The  first  attack.** 

“ His  man  knew  the  symptoms  and  warned  us  of  what 
was  coming.  He  himself  warned  us.  We  had  ample  time 
for  preparation.** 

“ Very  good.  What  did  you  do?  Watch  him  closely?** 

“ Yes.  But  first  we  searched  him  at  his  own  request. 
He  was  most  anxious  that  we  should  be  thoroughly  satis- 
fied. We  searched  his  cabin,  examined  every  corner  of  his 
cabin  trunk;  we  looked  into  his  berth  and  under  the  berth 
and  on  the  shelves.  There  was  not  so  much  as  a bottle  of 
eau-de-Cologne.  He  had  secreted  nothing.  And  there 
was  no  drink  on  board  the  ship  at  all.  We  had  the  cabin 
on  either  side  of  him,  and  the  captain  and  his  own  man 
and  the  steward  had  the  three  cabins  opposite.  1 should 
like  you  to  understand  exactly,  otherwise  you  would  never 
believe  what  we  have  got  to  tell  next.  ** 

“ Go  on.  The  voyage  was  a failure/*  the  physician 
groaned.  “ You  have  told  me  that.  You  are  now  going 
to  make  excuses/*  said  the  physician,  gloomily. 

“ At  sunset  on  the  day  of  the  first  attack  Mr.  Atheling 
went  into  his  cabin.  W e sat  outside  the  open  door.  His 
man  Mavis  went  in  and  made  some  simple  arrangements. 
Then  he  came  out.  The  door  was  locked.  We  watched 
outside.** 


THE  DEMONIAC.  53 

“ Fools!  You  should  have  watched  inside.  I know  now 
what  you  are  going  to  tell  me/' 

44  We  had  proved  that  he  had  no  drink  in  the  cabin;  we 
were  certain  that  there  was  none  on  board  the  ship.  What 
was  the  use?  We  might,  if  that  was  alb  have  watched  the 
case  from  the  mast-head." 

44  In  the  morning  he  was  drunk." 

“In  the  morning  he  presented  every  appearance  of  in- 
toxication. He  could  not  be  drunk,  because  there  was  no 
drink  for  him  to  get  at." 

44  He  was  as  drunk  as  David's  son,  however." 

44  Well,  he  looked  it.  What  is  more  remarkable,  he 
continued  drunk  for  three  days  and  more.  We  went  in 
and  out  of  the  cabin  all  day;  there  was  no  drink  in  it.  I 
repeat,"  the  young  medico  said,  earnestly,  “ there  could 
have  been  no  drink  in  his  cabin,  just  as  there  was  none  on 
the  ship  at  all — none.  Yet  he  presented  every  symptom 
of  intoxication." 

44  More,"  said  the  other.  “ His  cabin  smelled  of 
whisky.  Until  w;e  arrived  at  our  great  discovery  it  was 
the  most  mysterious,  the  most  unaccountable  thing  ever 
heard  of.  No  one  would  have  believed  it. " 

44  Good  Lord!  what  fools^"  said  the  physician,  heart- 
lessly. 

44  We  may  be  fools,"  replied  the  first  young  man,  “ but 
we  can  at  least  show  that  we  carried  out  our  mission,  and 
if  it  failed — " 

“ It  was  because  there  exists  a Force  which  nobody  has 
discovered  before  ourselves,"  said  the  second  young  man, 
“ the  discovery  of  which  will  make  this  voyage  as  memor- 
able as  that  of  the  4 Eagle.'  " 

“Good  Lord!"  repeated  the  physician. 

“ There  was  no  drink  on  board,"  repeated  the  ship's 
doctor. 

44  Rubbish,"  said  the  physician. 

44  There  certainly  was  not.  Of  that  we  assured  our- 


54 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


selves.  The  captain  swore  that  there  was  none.  We 
searched  his  cabin.  The  steward  assured  us  there  was 
none.  We  searched  his  cabin.  There  was  the  official 
book  of  ship’s  stores  to  show  that  there  was  no  drink  on 
board.” 

“Ha!”  said  the  physician,  incredulous.  This  interjec- 
tion may  be  made  to  exhibit  a vast  amount  of  suspicion. 

“ You  do  not  believe?  Well,  we  can  not  help  that.  We 
had  the  assurance  of  Mr.  Atheling’s  man  Mavis.” 

“ I remember,  the  faithful  retainer  who  always  found 
the  drink.  An  excellent  and  trustworthy  witness.” 

“ At  any  rate  the  poor  man  was  in  despair.  His  master 
had  given  him  a promise  in  writing  of  two  hundred  pounds 
if  the  voyage  was  carried  out  without  his  having  any  access 
to  drink.  So  that  he  lost  the  money,  a very  considerable 
sum  to  lose.” 

“I  begin  to  understand,”  said  the  physician.  “Pray 
go  on,  gentlemen.  Your  behavior  has  shown  the  highest 
intelligence.  When  the  conjurer  directs  your  eyes  to  the 
ceiling  you  obey.  While  you  are  looking  up  he  does  the 
trick.  Wonderful!” 

“No.  In  this  case  there  was  no  juggling  possible.” 
The  cabin  door  was  unlocked;  we  went  in  and  out  all  day 
long.  We  never  saw  him  drinking.  Yet  he  presented 
every  appearance  of  a man  drinking  himself  almost  into  a 
comatose  condition.  He  lay  in  his  berth  all  the  time;  he 
was  never  quite  stupefied;  sometimes  he  recovered  par- 
tially; sat  up  and  began  to  sing;  his  eyes  followed  us  with 
a kind  of  suspicion.  ” 

“ No  doubt,”  said  the  physician. 

“ We  were  compelled,  in  short,  to  believe  that  we  have 
discovered  a new  phenomenon;  symptoms  never  before  ob- 
served in  such  cases.  ” 

“ Really!” 

“ I will  come  to  that  immediately.  In  the  meantime, 
observe  first  that  on  the  fourth  day  Mr.  Atheling  came  out 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


55 


of  his  cabin  completely  himself  again.  The  sea-air  soon 
restored  his  shaken  nerves.  He  became  again  the  delight- 
ful companion,  and  he  wanted  no  stimulant.  Three  weeks 
later  another  attack.  Again  the  warnings,  again  the  same 
precautions,  again  the  same  symptoms.”  The  young 
medicine  man  looked  at  this  point  preternaturally  solemn. 
His  companion  endeavored,  but  with  less  success,  to  as- 
sume the  same  solemnity. 

“ In  fact,  after  making  notes  and  comparing  our  obser 
vations,  we  have  drawn  up  a paper  on  the  subject.  It 
embodies  the  facts  and  contains  our  theory.” 

“ Our  joint  theory,”  said  his  friend. 

“Our  joint  theory.  We  propose  sending  it  to  the 
‘ Lancet/  It  is  called  the  ‘Unconscious  Simulation  of 
Alcoholic  Symptoms/” 

“ Ho!  ho!”  laughed  the  physician. 

The  young  men  looked  disconcerted. 

“ Allow  me,”  said  the  speaker.  “We  account  for  the 
phenomena  by  an  association  of  ideas  similar  to  those 
which  have  produced  like  results  in  the  stories  of  mediaeval 
saints.  ” 

“ Ha!  ha!”  the  physician  laughed  again. 

“ Allow  us,  at  least,  to  finish.  As  there  was  no  whisky 
to  be  procured,  memory  conjured  up  an  exact  reproduc- 
tion in  the  mind  of  the  processes  which  had  previously — ” 
“ Made  him  as  drunk  as  David's  son,”  said  the  physician. 
“ Well,  gentlemen,  you  will  do  what  you  please  about  your 
scientific  paper  on  the  ‘ Simulation  of  Alcoholic  Symp- 
toms/ If  you  publish  that  paper  I may  have  to  call  at- 
tention to  the  fact  that  you  were  sent  out  to  watch  this 
case,  and  that  you  allowed  the  patient  to  pass  the  nights, 
unwatched  and  alone,  in  his  own  cabin.  That  is  all. 
Have  you  anything  more  to  report  to  me?” 

“ Nothing  more,”  said  the  chief  speaker,  abashed. 

“ Except,”  said  the  other,  “ that  we  have  had  the  most 
delightful  voyage.  Of  course,  but  for  this  trouble.” 


56 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


“1  dare  say,”  said  the  physician,  coldly.  “You  were 
not,  however,  sent  to  enjoy  a delightful  voyage  so  much  as 
to  conduct  an  experiment  in  the  interests  of  science.  And 
you  have'  failed.  You  have  been  tricked  and  duped.” 

It  is  the  most  fatal  thing  for  a young  man  to  fail  in  the 
first  mission  intrusted  to  him;  no  matter  that  he  is  not  to 
blame;  he  is  blamed.  He  never  gets  another  mission.  As 
for  these  two  young  gentlemen  who  had  made  such  a re- 
sponsible start  they  got  no  more  chances,  because  they  had 
failed.  Their  scientific  paper,  which  was  to  have  made 
their  fortune,  on  the  simulation  of  alcoholic  intoxication 
never  appeared.  They  parted  company,  one  of  them  is 
now  a general  practitioner  in  the  neighborhood  of  Tooley 
Street  borough;  he  receives  sixpence  for  every  consulta- 
tion, and  has  to  give  a bottle  of  medicine  with  his  advice; 
he  does  pretty  well  and  has  sometimes  taken  thirty  or 
forty  sixpences  in  a day;  he  is  married;  but  he  feels  that 
even  these  blessings  fall  short  of  what  might  have  come  to 
him  had  that  scientific  paper  been  published.  And  he  still 
watches  for  new  illustrations  of  this  strange  and  morbid 
trick  of  memory.  The  other  is  doctor  on  board  a steamer 
which  voyages  up  and  down  among  the  South  Sea  Islands, 
carrying  passengers,  and  picking  up  dead  sea-slugs.  And 
even  he  is  not  completely  happy.  He  regrets  that  they 
watched  outside  the  door.  Experience  has  taught  him  the 
crafty  ways  of  the  toper. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HOW  THE  PATIENT  RETURNED. 

A few  days  later  the  subject  of  this  valuable  but  un- 
published scientific  paper  presented  himself  in  person  to 
the  physician. 

“ Humph!”  he  growled.  “ So  you^ve  come  back  from 
your  precious  voyage?” 


THB  DEMONIAC. 


57 


“ As  you  see/'  George  replied,  with  an  assumption  of 
ease.  But  he  had  something  of  the  appearance  of  the 
school-boy  who  can  not  conceal  or  deny  the  fact.  44  And 
I've  come  to  report  myself." 

66  Very  well.  You  need  not  trouble  to  report  yourself, 
because  I know  already  what  you  are  going  to  say. " 

44  Well,  I am  come  to  say  that,  as  I expected  all  along, 
the  devil  proved  too  cunning." 

44  And  his  victim  too  cowardly.  Well,  go  on.  You  had 
an  excellent  chance  of  curing  yourself  of  a shameful  and 
insidious  practice,  and  you  have  failed.  And  science  has 
lost  the  record  of  an  interesting  case.  You  have  failed. 
As  for  laying  it  on  the  back  of  the  devil—" 

44  Anyhow,  doctor,  the  voyage  was  a failure." 

44 1 know  that  already;  a ridiculous  failure.  After  the 
first  month  you  ought  to  have  come  home  again,  for  all 
the  good  it  has  done.  You  have  had  the  pleasure  of  throw- 
ing away  a good  many  thousands  of  pounds  and  you  are 
none  the  better  for  it,  but — I am  glad  to  tell  you  after 
such  a result — very  much  the  worse." 

44  No,  not  worse.  I think  I am  really  better.  Because, 
you  see,  now  that  I have  made  up  my  mind  to  the  worst, 
1 am  no  longer  troubled  about  resistance.  I am  resigned. 
I accept  the  inevitable.  I am  not  so  unhappy  about  things 
as  I was.  Better,  doctor,  not  worse.  Much  better." 

44  Humph!  You  are  looking  in  very  good  health,  at  any 
rate,  confound  you." 

44 1 am  perfectly  well.  That  is  the  strange  thing,  con- 
sidering what  I go  through  every  two  months.  It  has  now 
become  a recurring  attack  at  settled  periods  of  two 
months.  Well,  it  seems  to  produce  no  bad  effects  upon 
me  at  all." 

His  face  had  become  broader  and  somewhat  coarser. 
Some  of  the  finer  intellectual  beauty  had  dropped  out; 
one  can  not  very  well  enjoy  such  periodical  experiences 
and  hve  such  a life  and  preserve  altogether  the  spiritual 


58 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


look;  but  it  was  a handsome  face  still.  Not  in  the  least 
the  face  of  an  habitual  drunkard.  And  always  a good- 
tempered  and  a kindly  face. 

44  1 know  all  about. it/*  said  the  physician.  44  You  need 
not  trouble  to  tell  me.  After  a few  weeks  at  sea  the  first 
attack  came.  Your  medical  men — the  intelligent  pair 
who  were  to  keep  you  and  watch  you  night  and  day- 
searched  the  cabin  and  yourself  for  drink.  They  found 
none.  They  left  you  alone  all  night — alone  in  the  cabin 
— no  suspicion  of  the  craft  and  subtlety  of  what  you  call 
the  devil.  In  the  morning  you  presented  every  appearance 
of  one  heavily  intoxicated.  You  were  comatose  with 
whisky.” 

44  That  is  true,”  George  smiled  gravely.  44  That  is 
quite  true.” 

44  At  every  recurring  attack  the  same  appearances  were 
observed  after  the  same  elaborate  precautions  had  been  ob- 
served?” 

44  They  were.  The  two  young  doctors  have  written  an 
essay  on  my  case,”  he  laughed.  44  They  call  it  a case  of 
associated  alcoholism  or  the  simulation — ” 

44 1 know,  I know.” 

44 1 perceive  that  they  have  called  upon  you.  Well,  you 
know,  they  are  capital  fellows.  They  play  a good  rubber, 
sing  a good  song,  handle  their  singlesticks  cleverly,  and 
put  on  the  gloves  with  good  temper.  They  were  never 
dull  and  only  melancholy  at  the  first  go  off  when  the  simu- 
lation, you  know,  began.  They  were  unhappy  then. 
Not  a drop  of  drink  in  the  whole  ship,  and  yet  there  1 was 
— in  the  cabin.  They  searched  the  ship  as  energetically  as 
the  young  man  from  the  country  searches  the  stage  at 
Maskelyne  and  Cooke’s.” 

44  Yes,”  said  the  physician,  44  so  1 suppose.  Pray,  sir, 
may  a plain  man,  who  is  no  conjurer,  inquire  how  this 
stupendous  miracle — this  conversion  of  water  into  whisky 
— was  accomplished?” 


THE  DEMONIAC.  59 

46 1 told  you  that  the  devil  would  be  too  cunning.  Well, 
now.  Mavis,  my  servant — ” 

44  Oh,  yes,  1 remember  Mavis,  your  servant.  Ah!  He 
is  the  devil,  then?” 

44 1 sometimes  think  he  is.  Well,  like  all  great  conjur- 
ing tricks,  it  was  really  quite  simple.  When  I told  Mavis 
to  get  a captain  I was  not  aware  that  he  had  cousins  in  the 
seafaring  line.  Luckily  for  me  he  had.  One  of  these 
was  a captain,  a very  good  captain,  too,  though  he  had  lost 
every  situation,  one  after  the  other,  through  his  habits  of 
drink.  This  1 did  not  find  out  until  afterward.  Other- 
wise, the  best  of  captains.  He  pretended  to  be  wholly  un- 
acquainted even  with  the  taste  of  spirits — a Rechabite  from 
his  youth  upward.  9K 

44  That  was  an  excellent  beginning.” 

44  Truly.  Then  there  was  the  steward.  He,  too,  as 
afterward  appeared,  was  a cousin,  and  had  got  into  trouble 
on  the  Orient  Line  in  connection  with  the  bottle  depart- 
ment. He,  too,  professed  total  abstinence-said  that  he 
abhorred  even  the  appearance  of  alcohol.  Well,  you  see, 
with  those  two  on  board  and  Mavis,  who  1 ought  to  have 
known  can  not  live  without  his  beer  and  his  grog,  it  was 
pretty  certain  that  there  would  be  always  something  on 
board.  In  fact,  they  had  enough  on  board  to  sink  the 
ship,  but  they  kept  the  thing  dark.  At  dinner  and  at 
luncheon  we  had  apollinaris.” 

44  Yes.  And  how  did  this  admirable  servant  convey  the 
drink  to  your  cabin?” 

' 44  By  a little  contrivance.  And  it  shows  what  a man  of 
resources  my  servant  is.  He  knew  what  would  happen 
very  well,  and  he  provided  accordingly.  So  that,  when  it 
did  come,  and  that  with  a rush  and  hardly  any  warning, 
so  that  1 verily  thought  it  was  going  to  kill  me  outright, 
there  it  was  all  ready  for  me.  4 Mavis/  I said,  4 get  me 
the  whisky  and  Pll  give  you  four  hundred/  You  see,  I 


GO 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


liad  promised  him  two  hundred  if  he  brought  me  home 
with  a sober  record.” 

44  Good.  Mavis  was  a far-seeing  servant.  ” 

44  So  he  whispered  what  1 was  to  do.  Then  your  two 
doctors  searched  the  cabin  and  my  pockets.  They  left  not 
a corner;  they  took  out  the  mattresses  and  the  pillows  and 
the  cushions.  When  they  were  quite  sure  that  there  was 
nothing  for  me  they  allowed  me  to  go  in  and  left  me  to 
wrestle  it  out.  ” 

44  Left  you?  Fools!” 

44  To  wrestle  it  out,  they  said.  Then  they  sat  down  and 
watched  outside  the  door.  They  watched  all  night.  But 
the  moment  they  were  out  of  the  cabin  I unscrewed  a cer- 
tain ornamental  knob  and  drew  out  of  it  a tube  with  a 
mouthpiece,  and  the  tube,  doctor,  was  connected  with  a 
cask  of  whisky.  Now,  do  you  understand  the  subtlety  of 
the  devil?” 

44 1 do.  1 thoroughly  understand  it.” 

44  As  for  Mavis,  he  earned  that  money.  I had  a charm- 
ing voyage,  varied  by  several  little  episodes  of  that  descrip- 
tion. We  were  all  pleased,  especially  the  two  men  of 
science.” 

44  That  is  all  you  have  to  tell  me,  I suppose?”  said  the 
physician,  coldly. 

44  That  is  all.  I have  given  up  the  idea  of  trying  to  re- 
sist any  more.  If  I can  not  be  cured  except  by  my  own 
resistance  I can  never  be  cured  at  all.” 

44  No,  you  are  now  beyond  hope.  Well,  Mr.  Atheling, 
it  is  a thousand  pities  to  see  a splendid  man  ruined.  Shall 
1 read  your  future?” 

44  If  you  can,  doctor.” 

44  Your  will  has  now  grown  so  weak  that  you  can  not 
resist;  you  shrink  with  terror  from  the  mere  idea  of  re- 
sistance; the  attack,  which  is  a kind  of  spasmodic  action 
and  should  be  met  and  defeated  by  resolute  refusal  to 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


61 


yield,  is  now  magnified  in  your  imagination  into  a terrible, 
monstrous,  powerful  devil,  to  whom  you  surrender  basely 
and  cowardly  without  a blow.  Well,  you  will  go  on  in 
this  miserable  weakness,  growing  slowly  or  swiftly,  as  the 
ease  may  be,  worse  and  worse,  as  a rudderless  ship  drifts 
slowly  or  rapidly  on  a lee  shore.  The  attacks  will  become 
more  frequent  and  more  violent — perhaps  both.  You  will 
gradually  lose  the  only  thing  which  now  protects  you — that 
small  amount  of  self-respect  which  makes  you  hide  your- 
self and  your  vice  when  it  overtakes  you.  Presently  you 
will  cease  to  care  whether  your  friends  know  about  it  or 
not.  You  will  no  longer  have  the  desire  to  preserve  a 
good  name.  All  the  time  your  mind  will  be  deteriorating 
as  your  will  weakens.  Remember  that  on  his  strength  of 
will  depends  the  whole  life  of  a man.  Your  judgment  in 
business  affairs  will  be  impaired.  All  your  finer  qualities 
- — they  have  already  suffered  loss — will  be  destroyed;  your 
learning,  your  skill,  your  art,  your  genius,  your  eye,  your 
taste — all  will  go.  In  course  of  time  you  will  become,  if 
you  live,  an  open,  acknowledged  and  daily  drunkard. 
You  will  live  in  this  degraded  and  disgraced  condition  un- 
til by  mere  lucky  accident  you  will  take  cold,  get  pneu- 
monia, and  so  be  kicked  out  of  the  world  you  have  helped 
to  make  worse  into  another,  where  you  will  receive  the 
treatment  due  to  you.  As  for  your  children,  if  you  have 
any,  you  will  have  transmitted  to  them  your  inheritance, 
if  it  is  an  inheritance,  of  alcoholic  craving,  doubled  and 
trebled,  with  far  less  power  of  resistance  than  that  with 
which  you  started.  Not  only  are  you  a coward  to  your- 
self, but  you  are  a criminal  to  your  children.”  The  doc- 
tor paused  and  snorted. 

George  heard  him  without  the  least  indignation,  remon- 
strance or  surprise. 

“All  these  things,”  he  said,,  quietly,  “1  have  said  to 
myself  over  and  over  again,  with  agonies  of  shame  and  re- 
proach. I say  them  no  longer.  1 feel  no  longer  any  pang 


62 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


of  shame.  As  for  my  children,  I have  made  up  my  mind 
not  to  have  any. ” 

“ So  say  you  now.  Wait  for  a year  or  two.  Wait  till 
your  loneliness  becomes  more  than  you  can  bear.  Young 
gentleman,  any  weak  creature  may  go  and  get  married; 
but  it  requires  a far  stronger  man  than  you  to  remain  un- 
married.” 

“ I see  before  me  in  place  of  the  future  you  have  drawn 
a life  of  harmless  obscurity.  1 have  parted  with  my  old 
ambitions  because  they  are  no  longer  possible  to  attain.  I 
have  no  career  before  me.  I can  attempt  nothing.  When 
I.  die  the  waves  will  close  over  me,  and  1 shall  be  forgotten 
in  a moment  and  regretted  by  no  one.  Six  times  in  the 
year  1 shall  go  into  retreat.  In  the  intervals  I shall  be 
calm  and  contented.  The  craving  will  not  grow  upon  me; 
it  has  not  grown  for  five  years;  it  does  not  come  on  oftener 
than  it  did.” 

“ Because  you  are  young  and  have  still  left  some  of  the 
resources  of  your  former  life.  You  read,  you  walk,  you 
think.  Wait  till  you  grow  weary  of  occupation  without  an 
aim.” 

“If  your  prophecy,  or  half  of  it  even,  were  to  come 
true,  do  you  think  that  I should  continue  to  live?” 

“ Why,  man,  with  such  a vice  as  yours  you  would  love 
your  life  too  well.  Besides,  your  will  would  be  too  weak. 
You  could  not  longer  bear  to  face  a violent  death  even  to 
escape  the  greatest  shames  possible  to  life.  In  your  strong 
frame  already  beats  the  heart  of  a coward.”  George 
laughed.  “ When  1 told  you  this  once  before  you  winced. 
Now  you  laugh.  Observe  the  deterioration  that  has  al- 
ready set  in.  You  laugh.” 

“ If  you  like.  1 never  think  of  the  thing  that  way  now. 
What  would  have  been  shameful  and  disgraceful  three 
years  ago  is  now  a part  of  my  life — part  of  my  life.  1 feel 
no  more  disgraced  because  I am  afflicted  with  this  incura- 
ble disease  than  if  I had  rheumatism.  It~is  all  habit.  I 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


63 


now  understand  how  the  worst  criminal  can  entertain  the 
most  virtuous  sentiments.  I am  resigned  to  the  inevita- 
ble.” 

66  One  thing  might  save  you— it  is  the  only  thing.  For 
the  sake  of  some  others — for  some  great  personal  attach- 
ment— for  some  great  scare  on  their  account — you  might 
make  the  sacrifice  of  one  night’s  suffering.  For  your  own 
sake,  never.” 

66  Then  I shall  never  make  that  sacrifice.  I am,  as  you 
say,  too  great  a coward,  and  I can  never  again  greatly  care 
for  any  human  creature.” 

George  went  away.  . He  had  expected  no  help  from  the 
physician,  and  he  got  none.  He  was  like  one  who  sees 
heaven — all  glorious,  blissful,  eternal — before  him,  but 
fears  to  pass  through  the  fire  of  purgatory,  which  lasts  but 
a little  while.  Many  such  souls  there  must  be,  waiting  on 
the  bank,  cowering  at  the  sight  of  the  cleansing  flame. 
Yet  he  knew  that  he  was  getting  worse.  His  purposeless 
life,  as  well  as  his  surrender,  was  dragging  him  down.  But 
he  had  formed  a resolution.  He  would  work.  At  least 
he  would  have  some  object  to  live  for,  if  it  were  only  to 
earn  his  daily  bread. 

“ Mavis,”  he  said  that  evening,  “ I have  seen  my  old 
doctor  again.  I told  him  that  the  devil  has  proved  more 
cunning  than  he  thought.  He  isn’t  acquainted  with  the 
devil,  that  doctor.” 

. “No,  sir.” 

“ He  thinks  he  is,  but  he  is  not.  Yes,  he  thinks  he  is, 
but  he  isn’t.  The  doctor  doesn’t  seem  best  pleased  with 
the  result  of  the  voyage.  He  expected  better  things. 
Well,  we  did  promise  a different  ending,  didn’t  we?  We 
did  start  with  the  intention  of  completing  the  job.” 

“We  did,  sir,”  said  Mavis. 

“ And  we  have  completed  it,  though  not  exactly  in  the 
way  we  intended.” 


64 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


44  Come,  sir,  after  all  it  don’t  do  you  any  harm.  Even 
the  doctor  can’t  say  but  what  you  look  as  well  and  as  vig- 
orous as  ever.  Lately,  too,  they  haven’t  come  quite  so 
regular,  have  they?” 

64  Well,  I don’t  know  about  that.” 

4 4 A drunk  now  and  again— an  honest  drunk— and  have 
done  with  it,”  said  Mavis.  46  What  harm  can  that  do  any 
man?  Why,  that’s  the  way  the  sailors  live.  They 
couldn’t  keep  up  if  it  wasn’t  for  the  looking  forward. 
Think  of  the  gentlemen  drinking  their  champagne  every 
day.  Why,  it’s  far  worse.  As  for  you,  sir,  a more  tem- 
perate and  sober  gentleman  don’t  live.  You  ought  to  take 
a pride  in  yourself  for  your  moderation.  What  is  it?  A 
couple  of  bottles  of  whisky  once  in  two  months.  Spread 
it  out,  a quarter  of  a bottle  in  a week;  why,  it’s  nothing.” 
This  was  the  longest  speech  Mavis  had  ever  made. 

44  Very  good,  Mavis,”  said  his  master.  44 1 will  seek 
consolation  in  that  reflection.  Meantime,  I am  going  to 
make  a change.  You  shall  have  the  cottage  to  live  in.  I 
shall  go  and  live  in  some  part  of  London  where  I am  not 
known.  1 will  let  you  know  where  so  that  you  may  be  on 
the  spot  when — ” 

44  Very  well,  sir,”  said  Mavis. 

44 1 have  made  up  my  mind  to  start  afresh  in  a new 
place  and  on  a new  plan.  I shall  take  another  name.  I 
shall  go  and  live  a great  deal  lower  down  in  the  world.  I 
shall  no  longer  call  myself  a gentleman.  I shall  not  be  a 
man  of  fortune,  but  one  who  works  for  his  daily  bread. 
Perhaps  my  new  companions  will  forgive  any  little  eccen- 
tricities of  conduct,  if  they  do  discover  things.  On  the 
point  of  personal  dignity  or  self-respect  they  will  probably 
be  less  exacting.  So  that,  if  the  doctor’s  prophecy  comes 
true,  and  I’m  sure  I don’t  know  that  it  will  not,  they  will 
not  turn  me  out  into  the  wide,  wide  world  with  ignominy. 
There  may  even  be  fellow-sufferers  among  them.  Well, 
do. you  understand?” 


THE  DEMONIAC.  65 

“ Perfectly.,  sir.  Am  I to  find  you  a place  and  a com- 
panion?” 

“ No.  This  time,  Mavis,  I will  look  about  for  myself. 
You  provided  me  once  with  a captain  and  a steward,  and 
a nice  little  workable  knob,  didn’t  you?  This  time  I will 
find  for  myself  what  I want.” 

“ What  am  I to  do,  sir?” 

“You  can  go  and  live  in  the  cottage.  I will  pay  you 
the  same  wages.  I will  also  pay  the  rent  of  the  cottage 
and  your  own  board.  You  can  live  anywhere  else  if  you 
like,  but  you  must  keep  the  cottage  ready  for  me.  Until 
I have  learned  the  feelings  of  my  new  friends  on  the  sub- 
ject, 1 will  keep  the  cottage.  You  will  call  for  me  at  the 
regular  times  and  carry  me  off  and  look  after  me  as  usual. 
Otherwise,  1 shall  have  no  more  work  for  you.” 

“ Very  well,  sir.  ” 

“ You  will  be  an  idle  man;^be  a discreet  man  as  well. 
Guard  those  secrets  of  mine,  and  when  next  you  meet  me 
remember  that  you  are  not  my  servant,  but  an  old  ac- 
quaintance with  whom  1 have  business  relations.” 

“ Very  well,  sir,”  said  Mavis. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

OF  PENELOPE  AND  HER  WOOERS. 

“ Why  will  you  still  press  me?”  asked  the  girl.  “1 
have  answered  your  question  already  a dozen  times.” 

“ I press  you,”  replied  the  man,  “ because  your  answer 
appears  to  me  more  and  more  unreasonable.  Surely  the 
time  has  come  at  last  for  you  to  give  another  kind  of  re- 
ply.” 

“ No,  I have  only  one  answer.  I am  already,  as  you 
know,  engaged.  Therefore  I can  not  listen  to  any  talk  on 
this  subject,  even  from  you,  Mr.  Carew,  my  old  master.” 

“ You  are  engaged  to  a man  who  has  neither  written  to 


66 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


you  nor  visited  you  nor  sent  any  kind  of  message  to  you 
for  five  years.  ” 

44  That  is  true.  It  is  also  true — and  I must  not  forge  t 
it — that  when  1 last  saw  him  I assured  him  that  I should 
wait  for  a release  from  his  own  lips.  I have  waited  and  I 
still  wait.  ” 

4 4 He  went  away.  He  has  sent  you  no  message  since 
that  time.  You  know  that  three  or  four  years  ago  he 
drew  money  from  his  bank.  Therefore  he  was  then  alive. 
But  he  sent  you  no  letter  or  message.  That  shows  that  he 
thought  you  were  free.  Perhaps  he  is  dead.  To  you  the 
question  need  not  be  raised.  You  are  free.” 

44  If  rich  men  like  George  die,  their  death  is  heard  of  by 
their  heirs.  I do  not  believe  that  he  is  dead.  Let  him,  if 
he  chooses,  set  me  free.” 

44  Then  he  has  forgotten  you.  Good  heavens!  As  if 
that  were  possible!” 

44  In  either  case  I must  wait.  If  he  is  dead — until  I 
know  the  fact.  If  he  has  forgotten  me — until  he  tells  me 
so  himself.” 

This  conversation  was  only  one  of  many  turning  upon 
the  same  point,  the  nature  of  which  is  sufficiently  indi- 
cated. It  was  carried  on  in  the  library  of  a great  house  in 
South  Kensington.  The  library  was  the  girl's  study,  the 
original  proprietor,  her  father,  having  abdicated  since  his 
daughter's  return  from  Cambridge.  It  contained  a good 
collection  of  books,  and  on  the  table  were  heaped  the  pile 
of  papers,  magazines,  and  books,  with  the  inevitable  waste- 
paper  basket  beside  them,  which  denote  the  presence  of  the 
scholar  or  the  writer.  These  two  young  people  met  each 
other  as  often  as  they  possibly  could;  they  walked  together, 
they  rode  together,  they  argued  on  the  things  which  most 
interested  them,  and  continually  came  back  to  the  same 
question  and  the  same  answer,  with  a commentary  on  the 
latter  furnished  by  the  young  man.  For  the  girl  was  so 
constant  to  a forgetful  lover  as  to  remain  faithful  after  five 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


G7 


years  of  neglect  and  silence,  and  the  young  man  was  so 
persistent  a suitor  that  he  returned  continually  to  his  ques- 
tion, and  continually  remonstrated  with  the  answer. 

The  girl,  you  perceive,  was  Elinor  Thanet,  now  three- 
and-twenty  years  of  age.  It  seems  old  to  those  who  are 
still  eighteen,  but  it  is  not  regarded  by  those  who  arc  past 
three-and-twenty  as  a great  age,  even  for  a girl.  And  at 
three-and-twenty  there  is  still  the  first  sweet  bloom  upon 
the  cheek,  and  there  is  still  some  of  the  first  fresh  spring 
of  youth. 

When  we  last  saw  Elinor  she  was  on  the  point  of  going 
to  Cambridge,  there  to  achieve  the  honor  and  glory  of  a 
first-class.  She  fulfilled  the  first  part  of  the  programme — 
that  is  to  say,  she  did  go  to  Newnham.  But  as  for  the 
second  part,  that  event  did  not  come  off.  Perhaps  the  de- 
fection of  her  lover  disheartened  her;  perhaps  the  intric- 
acies of  Latin  prose  worried  her;  perhaps  she  lost  her  am- 
bition; whatever  the  reason,  she  did  not  present  herself  at 
the  honors  examination.  Her  friends,  however,  said  that 
she  could  have  taken  a first-class  if  she  had  pleased.  Many 
thousands  of  pass  men  say  the  same  thing  of  themselves, 
but  their  friends  accept  the  statement  without  zeal,  even 
with  frigidity.  Few,  indeed,  have  it  said  of  them.  So 
that  Elinor  retired  from  her  university  course  with  great 
and  uncommon  distinction.  Not  to  take  a first-class  when 
you  can  have  it  for  the  trouble  of  asking  for  it  argues  a 
superiority  that  has  never  yet  been  found,  even  among  the 
Gollege  dons.  The  consciousness  of  this  distinction  was 
doubtless  the  reason  why  Elinor  on  returning  to  London 
treated  the  common  herd  of  admirers  with  so  much  dis- 
dain. Her  own  common  herd  was  more  numerous  than 
that  of  any  other  girl  because  she  was  going  to  be  rich. 
Every  picture,  even  the  most  beautiful,  looks  all  the  better 
for  being  richly  framed. 

Elinor  Thanet  was  also  distinguished  by  a very  remark- 
able circumstance.  She  was  engaged  and  her  lover  had 


08 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


disappeared.  At  this  time  no. tidings  had  been  heard  of 
him  for  three  years.  She  herself  had  heard  nothing  of 
him  or  from  him  for  five  years.  But  for  three  years  he 
had  drawn  no  money  from  his  bank  and  had  made  no 
communication  with  his  lawyers.  Yet  he  was  a rich  man, 
having  an  income  of  many  thousand  pounds  a year,  all  of 
which  lay  accumulating — a great  mass  of  unused  wealth. 
And  certain  cousins  who  were  greatly  interested  in  his  wel- 
fare were  beginning  to  ask  when  the  missing  man  should 
be  considered  dead. 

These  circumstances;  the  first-class  which  had  not  been 
taken;  the  lover  who  could  not  be  found;  the  fortune 
which  would  come  to  this  young  lady — made  her  a person 
of  the  greatest  interest  to  society.  As  yet  no  one  had  suc- 
ceeded in  persuading  her  that  her  engagement  had  really 
been  broken  off  long  ago  by  the  neglect  and  silence  of  her 
lover.  No  girl,  I think,  ever  had  a more  convenient  weap- 
on of  defense  than  this  shadowy  engagement.  Nay,  it 
was  a weapon  of  offense  as  well,  because  it  could  be  used 
to  drive  away  a persistent  suitor  as  well  as  to  ward  off  him 
who  advanced  daintily  for  the  first  approach. 

The  only  man  who  was  allowed  to  persist  was  a certain 
John  Carew,  professor  of  political  economy  at  Gresham 
College,  sometime  lecturer  at  Newnham. 

The  word  “ sometime”  sounds  well — it  has  a savor  of 
ancientness.  Yet  John  Carew  was  at  present  only  six-and- 
twenty  years  of  age.  He  was  one  of  those  who  march  to 
the  front  early  and  are  born  with  the  conviction  that  they  ' 
belong  to  the  front.  Many  men  there  are — most  men,  in 
fact — who  could  never  march  to  the  front.  Their  place  is 
in  the  ranks;  they  are  happiest  low  down;  they  are  too 
diffident  as  to  their  natural  gifts  and  graces  for  any  am- 
bition at  all;  they  are  afraid  of  themselves,  they  can  not 
picture  themselves  incurring  vast  responsibilities  and  exer- 
cising great  authority.  Not  so  such  a man  as  John  Carew. 
He  strides  straight  up  the  hill.  “ My  place,”  he  says,  “ is 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


69 


in  the  front  row.  Make  way  for  me,  if  you  please.  ” 
After  a bit  they  have  got  to  make  way  for  him  and  to  put 
him  there,  when  very  likely  he  shows  that  he  was  right. 

Up  to  the  present,  as  you  have  seen,  John  Carew  has 
done  very  well— as  well  as  can  be  expected  at  the  age  of 
twenty-six.  He  had  no  family  interest  or  connections;  he 
was  the  son  of  one  of  those  successful  clergymen  who  get  a 
newly  built  district  church  in  a suburb  inhabited  by  clerks; 
his  father  had  no  money  to  spare;  yet  this  fortunate  youth 
received  the  best  education  that  the  country  can  give,  pro- 
ceeded to  the  university,  took  the  very  best  degree  possible, 
became  a Fellow,  and  at  twenty-six  was  professor  in  a Lon- 
don college  with  as  great  a reputation  as  one  so  young  can 
well  obtain  and  with  every  promise  of  greater  distinction 
to  follow.  All  this  magnificent  success  sprung  out  of  a 
school  scholarship,  and  it  is  the  history  of  successful  men 
by  the  hundred. 

John  Carew,  however,  was  not  inclined  to  stop  at  a col- 
lege professorship.  He  meant  to  rule  a larger  class  than 
gathered  in  his  lecture-room.  That  he  had  no  money  was 
a hinderance.  Fortune  favored  him  again,  because  she 
threw  in  his  way  a girl,  beautiful  and  belonging  to  the 
world  of  society  and  wealth,  with  whom  he  allowed  him- 
self to  fall  in  love.  Had  this  girl  not  been  wealthy  John 
Carew  would  not  have  allowed  himself  the  luxury  of  love. 
Since  she  was  wealthy  he  loved  her  very  deeply  and  sin- 
cerely. He  meant,  if  he  could,  to  marry  her;  he  meant, 
by  means  of  her  wealth  and  position,  to  advance  himself. 
A perfectly  desirable  girl  from  every  point  of  view  does 
not  present  herself  to  every  young  man,  and  especially  to  a 
young  man  who  makes  it  his  aim  to  take  no  step  in  life, 
especially  not  such  a step  as  marriage,  unless  it  be  a step 
in  advance. 

Meantime  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  way.  Other  men 
came  and  went  away  discouraged.  And  there  was  no  one 
else  with  whom  Elinor  talked  with  so  much  freedom.  It 


70 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


is  the  rule  of  such  girls  to  discuss  with  their  friends  every- 
thing, even  the  delicate  questions  of  love  and  marriage. 

“ 1 do  not  say,”  Carew  confessed,  “ that  a woman  of  the 
higher  kind  should  not  marry.  We  owe  our  best  and  our 
highest  qualities  in  trust  to  be  carried  on  to  the  next  gen- 
eration. But  I do  say  that  a woman  should  hesitate  long 
before  she  consents  to  give  herself  into  what  are  rightly 
called  the  bonds — the  chains  and  the  fetters — of  wedlock. 
Marriage  should  be  a surrender  of  self  on  both  sides— an 
equal  surrender — a giving  and  a taking.” 

Elinor  laughed.  “ That  is  conventional  talk,  Mr. 
Carew.  When  will  you  find  the  equal  couple?  There  is 
no  such  thing  in  nature  as  a couple  equal  in  intellect,  in 
will,  and  in  force  of  character.  Therefore  one  must  sub- 
mit, or  they  must  agree  to  part.  And  submission  is  easier 
than  separation.  Do  not  talk  conventionality  to  me,  my 
friend.  You  do  an  injustice  to  my  understanding.” 

“ I would  not  willingly  commit  such  a crime.” 

“ If  I were  to  marry  you  1 know  very  well  that  unless 
you  had  the  mastery  there  would  be  no  peace  for  your  soul. 
Most  men  are  masterful  by  a kind  of  instinct;  you  are 
masterful  because  you  feel  your  strength  of  brain.  If  I, 
for  my  part,  looked  for  your  boasted  equality,  you  would 
soon  allow  me  to  understand—” 

“ 1 should  never,  at  least,  allow  you  to  understand  any- 
thing short  of  the  very  best  respect  and  worship — ” 

“Well,  let  us  converse  about  something  on  which  we 
may,  perhaps,  agree. 3 5 

No  one  could  doubt  from  the  appearance  of  the  young 
man  that  Elinors  appreciation  of  his  character  was  per- 
fectly correct.  His  face  was  irregularly  good-looking — 
bore  the  stamp  of  resolution  and  of  courage.  He  had  the 
chin  and  mouth  of  a man  who  meant  to  have  his  own  way; 
he  had  the  clear-cut  nostrils,  the  straight  eyebrows,  the 
steady  eyes  and  the  square  forehead  of  one  whose  mind  was 
both  active  and  happiest  when  working  on  things  hard  and 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


71 


tough  to  the  general  multitude.  It  was  the"  face,  the  head 
and  the  figure  of  the  fighting  man.  And  in  these  days 
when  the  world  is  looking  in  all  directions  for  leaders  I 
really  think  that  John  Carew  has  as  good  a chance  as  any- 
body of  showing  what  stuff  there  is  in  him. 

“ Let  us  talk  of  something  else,  then.”  He  went  to  the 
table  and  took  up  a book.  “ Tell  me  what  you  are  work- 
ing at.” 

“Another  time.  Something,”  she  said,  “ has  brought 
back  the  memory  of  my  old  lover.  1 know  not  what  note 
has  been  struck.  I seem  to  hear  his  voice  and  to  see  him 
standing  before  me.  1 do  not  think  there  is  anything,  my 
friend,  that  1 should  wish  for  more  than  to  see  him  again 
and  to  hear  from  his  own  lips  what  he  has  done,  why  he 
went  away,  and  why  he  has  forgotten  me  altogether.” 

“ You  agree,  then,  that  he  must  have  forgotten  you?” 

“ Something  happened  to  him,  the  nature  of  which  I 
can  not  so  much  as  guess;  something  happened  which 
altered  not  only  the  whole  course  of  his  life,  but  his  very 
nature.  What  can  alter  a man  so  much  in  three  months? 
Not  any  ill  stroke  of  fortune;  not  ill  health;  not  any  busi- 
ness troubles — at  least  that  I ever  heard  of.  What  could 
it  have  been?” 

“ I do  not  know;  I can  not  even  guess.” 

“ Consider.  He  has  gone  away;  he  has  left  his  great 
wealth  untouched;  he  has  not  drawn  any  money  for  three 
years!” 

“ He  is  probably  dead.” 

“ No;  1 am  certain  that  he  is  not  dead.  We  should 
have  heard  of  his  death  somehow.  Why  did  he  go  away? 
What  is  the  cause  of  his  keeping  away?  If  it  were  love  or 
marriage  he  would  still  want  his  money.” 

“ And  you,  if  you  were  to  meet  him,  how  would  you  re- 
ceive him?”  ^ 

“ He  would  be  always  my  brother.  1 have  not  a spark 
of  any  other  feeling  left  for  him.  At  one  time  it  was 


72 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


different.  I was  very  fond  of  him  and  thought  a great 
deal  about  him.  He  was  in  my  thoughts  nearly  all  day. 
That  was  because  he  was  always  with  me,  1 suppose.  We 
used  to  play  together.  I donT  know  even  how  we  became 
engaged.  No  word  was  said,  I know,  but  one  day  we  met 
with  a warmer  pressure  of  the  hand — and  that  was  all. 
Poor,  dear  boy!  He  went  out  of  my  thoughts;  Cambridge 
drove  him  out;  and  he  went  out  of  my 'heart.  I have  long 
ceased  to  lament  him,  or  to  fancy  that  1 love  him — and  yet 
—yet — I want  to  hear  from  his  own  lips,  and  the  last 
words  that  1 said  to  him  was  a promise  of  constancy.” 

“ A promise — yes,  but  since  for  all  these  years  you  have 
heard  nothing — whether  he  is  dead  or  alive,  or  if  you  heard 
that  he  was  living  three  years  ago,  the  fact  that  he  never 
wrote  a line  shows  that  he  considers  you  free  long  ago— 
long  ago.  Elinor,  do  not  waste  time  over  such  a man  any 
longer.” 

“ Find  him  for  me.  Formerly  ladies  enjoined  great 
tasks  upon  their  knights.” 

“ Will  you  call  me  your  knight?” 

“"Yes.”  She  gave  him  her  hand,  which  he  kissed. 
44  But  not  yet  anything  more.  This  is  my  task  which  1 
lay  upon  you.  Find  that  missing  lover.  Tell  me  where 
he  is.  It  is  really  a very  little  world.  Find  out  where  he 
is  and  bring  him  to  me  or  me  to  him.  ” 

“ If  you  had  ordered  me  to  slay  a giant  or  a dragon  I 
should  have  complied  contentedly.  But  for  finding  your 
old  lover — What  is  the  name  of  this  abominable  per- 
son?” 

44  His  name  is  Atheling.” 

“ Atheling!  1 seem  to  have  heard  the  name  somewhere. 
I donT  remember  at  this  moment.  Atheling!  big  blue 
eyes,  brown  hair.  As  for  voice?” 

46  A pleasant,  musical  voice,  rather  low  down.  A clever 
man  with  ideas.  He  started  with  the  intention  of  being 


THE  DEMOHIAC.  73 

something  great-prime  minister.  lie  was  as  ambitious 
as  you.  ” 

44  Am  I ambitious?” 

44  You  are  nothing  else,  except  that  you  are  clever,  much 
cleverer  than  George,  who  would  not  have  got  beyond 
Secretary  for  the  Colonies.  1 believe  the  stupidest  man 
always  gets  the  Colonies.” 

46  Well,  I have  his  name.  W7hat  shall  1 do  next?  I 
can  not  search  the  wide  world  for  him  because  my  lectures 
forbid  my  absence.  But  1 can  start  inquiries.  I believe 
that  when  a gentleman  is  wanted  by  the  police  they  send 
round  a description.  But  then  the  police  know  where  such 
gentlemen  as  they  want  mostly  resort,  which  is  a great  ad- 
vantage to  them.  They  don’t  know  where  such  a man  as 
your  friend  may  be  found.” 

44  You  are  much  more  clever  than  any  police.” 

44  Let  me  rather  slay  a giant  for  you,  Elinor.  1 would 
much  rather  kill  a dozen  giants.” 

46  Their  death  would  bring  me  neither  joy  nor  profit. 
Let  the  poor  giants  live,  and  find  my  poor  old  friend.” 

44  It  is  such  a wonderful  thing— such  a mysterious  thing. 
Why  should  the  man  go  away?  Why  should  he  keep 
away?  How  does  he  live?  He  must  be  dead.” 

44  A man  doesn’t  die  without  somebody  knowing  about 
it.  Death  is  a public  thing  even  for  the  meanest  man. 
Everybody  knows  it.  People  find  out  what  the  man  died 
of,  who  he  is  and  all  about  him.  It  is  a thing  that  can  not 
be  concealed  any  more  than  a birth.” 

44  He  may  be  in  San  Francisco — or  in  Hong  Kong — or 
anywhere  you  please.” 

44  No;  he  was  a thorough  Briton;  he  would  never  be 
comfortable  except  at  home.  He  would  never  be  happy 
unless  he  was  living  his  old  familiar  life.  Where  he  is  liv- 
ing and  why,  I can  not  tell.  Find  that  out  for  me,  my 
friend.  Find  him  out.” 


n 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IN  ARCADIA. 

There  is  a suburb  (a  district)  of  London  where  those 
reside  who  have  to  court  happiness  on  one  hundred  and 
fifty,  two  hundred,  even  three  hundred  pounds  a year. 
Not  all  those  who  enjoy  this  income  live  in  this  district, 
but  few  live  here  who  are  burdened  with  a larger  income. 
It  is  a country  pleasant  of  aspect.  The  roads  are  broad 
and  are  planted  with  limes.  The  houses  are  nearly  all 
built  after  the  same  pattern,  one  of  a kind  which  does  not 
require  the  pencil  or  the  imagination  of  the  architect. 
They  are  small  houses.  Your  only  true  comfort  in  this 
cold  climate  lies  in  snugness.  Each  house  has  a basement 
sitting-room,  which  in  winter  is  commonly  used  as  the 
family  living-room.  On  the  ground  floor  is  the  best  room. 
Above  are  three  or  four  bedrooms.  At  the  back  is  a nar- 
row strip  of  garden  in  which  those  who  are  clever  and  can 
give  all  their  leisure  to  the  task  contrive  to  grow  quantities 
of  flower-bearing  plants;  it  is  also  useful  on  Monday  morn- 
ing for  a drying  ground,  when  the  incense  of  soapsuds 
arises  weekly  in  a fragrant  steam  and  ascends  to  the  god- 
dess of  cleanliness.  Then  the  garden  presents  a waving 
white  surface,  broken  only  to  the  eye  of  the  upper  story  by 
the  green  poles.  The  garden  generally  has  a swing  in  it 
for  the  children,  and  in  many  cases  there  is  even  a green 
arbor  where  the  gentlemen  of  the  family  may  take,  in  the 
cool  of  a summer  evening,  the  solace  of  tobacco.  In  front 
of  the  house  is  a small,  a minute  garden,  which  has  some- 
times only  a single  laurel  in  it,  but  more  often  boasts  of  a 
laburnum  or  a lime  or  even  a hawthorn.  And  many  of 
the  houses  are  covered  all  over  with  Virginia  creeper,  so 
that  the  autumn  aspect  of  this  quarter  is  all  glorious  with- 
out. It  will  be  observed  that  they  can  all  be  described  as 


THE  DEMONIAC.  ?5 

commodious  family  residences.  The  rental  is  about  thirty 
pounds  a year. 

Apart  from  the  convenience  of  the  residences  and  the 
leafy  beauty  of  the  roads  I have  often  thought  that  the 
most  precious  quality  of  the  district  is  the  entire  absence  of 
anything  which  can  humble  the  residents  and  make  them 
envious.  No  great  houses  rear  their  lofty  fronts  beside 
these  simple  two-storied  structures;  no  one  possesses  a 
private  carriage,  not  even  the  doctor;  nobody  keeps  more 
than  one  servant;  there  are  no  dinner-parties;  a dress-coat 
is  absolutely  not  known.  Dinner  is  regarded  not  as  a 
function  of  religious  ceremony,  as  it  should  be,  but  as  a 
necessary  operation,  like  stoking  the  engine — necessary  but 
expensive,  even  with  the  best  management,  and  a thing  to 
be  jealously  kept  within  limits.  Yet,  though  there  are  no 
dress-coats,  think  not  that  there  is  no  society.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  society.  Young  folks  enjoy  greater  facilities 
for  meeting  each  other  than  persons  who  obey  a stricter 
law  of  convention  and  propriety.  The  girls  get  lots  of 
pretty  things  to  put  on,  as  most  pretty  things,  in  fact,  are 
cheap— though  they  have  to  make  up  these  pretty  things 
with  their  own  pretty  hands  for  their  own  pretty  figures. 
As  for  getting  engaged,  they  are  all  engaged,  sometimes 
half  a dozen  times  over — but  never  more  than  one  at  a 
time,  so  lofty  is  the  moral  standard — before  they  finally 
settle  down.  There  is  an  unwritten  law,  obeyed  by  all  but 
the  reckless  and  the  unthinking,  that  a prudent  pair 
should  not  marry  until  the  income  reaches  a hundred  and 
twenty.  This  once  achieved  they  form  the  procession, 
strike  up  the  wedding-march,  and  march  up  the  aisle  and 
stand  before  the  clergyman,  conscious  of  having  done  their 
duty  in  waiting,  and  now  fully  justified  in  commencing  as 
Adam  and  Eve  in  a new  Garden  of  Eden,  from  which 
they  hope  never  to  be  turned  out.  There  are  dancing 
classes  in  the  winter,  in  the  summer  there  are  excursions, 
trips,  tourists*  tickets,  and  outings;  there  are  lectures. 


76 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


concerts,  readings,  and  there  is  the  social  life  of  the  church 
and  the  chapel — of  late  years  the  Church  has  discovered 
that  she,  too,  must  come  down  and  associate  with  her  peo- 
ple if  she  would  keep  them  out  of  the  chapel.  There  are, 
for  instance,  the  guilds.  This  kind  of  folk  is  very  fond  of 
guilds,  and  of  all  societies  and  institutions  which  admit  of 
a little  dressing  up,  putting  on  of  cassocks,  carrying  of 
banners  and  pretense-making  of  all  kinds.'  In  short,  the 
place  is  never  dull.  The  people  go  but  little  to  the  the- 
aters, though  you  will  generally  find  that  the  younger  sort 
have  seen  the  most  popular  pieces.  They  never  by  any 
chance  visit  picture-galleries  or  museums;  they  know  noth- 
ing about  good  music;  they  never  read  books  at  all  except 
the  cheapest  novels — there  is  never  a bookseller  in  the 
quarter.  They  have  no  knowledge  of  literature,  art,  or 
science;  they  take,  as  a rule,  but  small  interest  in  politics, 
though  they  have  a firm  belief  in  law,  and  in  all  times  of 
difficulty  and  of  danger  they  wonder  why  government  does 
not  make  a law,  yet  they  are  never  dull.  When  men  and 
women  congregate  together  as  friends  and  neighbors  and 
know  each  other  they  are  never  dull.  Those  places  only 
are  dull  when  the  houses  stand  side  by  side  and  street  lies 
parallel  with  street,  and  no  man  knoweth  his  neighbor. 
Bloomsbury  is  dull,  South  Kensington  is  dull,  but  this 
place — never. 

One  must  not  specify  its  exact  situation  on  the  map  of 
London.  To  name  the  place  might,  if  this  history  should 
come  to  be  widely  read,  cause  a rush,  an  influx,  an  immi- 
gration of  strange  folk  who  have  nothing  in  common  with 
these  people  but  their  income.  This  would  run  up  the 
rents,  enhance  the  value  of  the  pews,  and  enlarge  the  views 
of  the  butcher,  which  are  already.  Heaven  knows,  large 
enough.  Call  it  Clerkland,  but  it  should  be  called  Ar- 
cadia. 

Quite  the  prettiest  road  in  Clerkland  is  Daffodil  Road. 
It  is  at  once  the  broadest,  the  best  planted  with  trees,  and 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


77 


the  most  flowery.  There  are  flowers  in  every  window, 
Virginia  creeper  over  every  house,  a lilac  or  a laburnum  in 
every  front,  and  a lime-tree  for  every  two  houses  along  the 
whole  road.  The  line  is  broken  by  a red-brick  church,  set 
among  trees  and  already  pleasantly  wrapped  in  ivy — The 
Church  of  St-  Luke  the  Physician,  where  the  services  are 
musical  and  bright.  The  word  ‘‘bright/5  as  generally 
applied  to  the  modern  church  service,  has  a meaning  quite 
peculiar,  but  then  everything  should  have  its  own  adjec- 
tives. There  are  forty-two  houses  in  the  Daffodil  Road, 
each  with  its  own  name — quite  grand— all  to  itself,  though 
the  post-office,  which  lacks  the  poetical  sentiment,  insists 
on  a number  as  well. 

The  residents  in  the  road  mostly  know  each  other  either 
with  familiarity  and  intimate  friendship  or  with  speaking 
acquaintance.  And  they  know  each  others  private  affairs. 
They  know  where  every  husband  has  his  berth  and  what  is 
his  salary,  what  his  family,  what  his  wife’s  method  of 
household  management,  and  pretty  nearly  the  weekly  bill 
of  the  butcher.  It  is  not  so  much  in  a spirit  of  prying 
curiosity  that  this  knowledge  is  sought — curiosity  doubtless 
enters  to  a certain  extent  into  the  inquiry;  we  are  but  hu- 
man— as  in  the  desire  to  get  if  possible  another  wrinkle 
into  the  great  and  wonderful  mystery  of  managing.  For 
lo  you!  we  who  boast  that  we  are  men — the  creators — men 
the  inventors — men  who  carry  along  the  world — men  who 
discover,  create,  enlarge — we  men  have  never  imagined  or 
devised  anything  that  surpasses  in  ingenuity,  wit,  con- 
trivance, and  marvels  of  results,  the  great  art  of  manage- 
ment invented  by  woman,  and  carried  in  this  suburb  to  its 
utmost  perfection.  It  is  indeed  a miracle  and  passing 
wonder  of  human  skill,  that  most  amazing  art.  Under- 
stand that  she  who  has  to  bring  up  a family  of  six  on  an 
income  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a year,  to  educate 
them,  to  teach  them  manners,  to  make  them  appear  in  the 
streets  neatly  and,  for  the  girls,  prettily  dressed,  must  for- 


78 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


ever  be  studying  this  wonderful  art.  She  does  not  go  out 
to  spend;  she  stays  at  home  to  manage;  she  does  not  buy 
this  or  that  as  the  whim  seizes  her,  if  she  thinks  that  she 
wants  it;  she  manages.  That  is  to  say,  for  the  most  part 
she  does  without — she  waits.  But  consider,  when  at  last, 
after  patient  waiting  she  arrives  at  the  power  of  getting  a 
thing  that  is  to  add  so  much  to  the  family  comfort,  she 
purchases  it  with  a far  fuller  joy,  a far  deeper  satisfaction, 
a far  greater  thankfulness  than  can  ever  be  enjoyed  by 
that  unhappy  Dives  who  only  experiences  a slight  sense  of 
something  lacking  before  he  orders  and  buys  a thing.  The 
matron  who  manages  gets  the  full  flavor  and  enjoyment  of 
everything  that  she  buys  or  possesses. 

To  be  able  to  buy  so  little!  That  seems  to  outsiders  who 
need  not  consider  a sixpence  or  dime  or  half  a crown  a 
most  unhappy  thing.  Not  so.  The  unhappiness  is  in 
being  unable  to  live  up  to  your  own  standard  of  material 
comfort.  As  for  what  is  unattainable,  those  who  live  here 
see  it  not.  A loftly,  impenetrable,  insurmountable  hedge 
hides  from  them  the  trees  which  bear  the  fruits  which  they 
can  not  pluck  and  eat.  Some  of  the  younger  sort  peep 
over  and  yearn  after  them,  but  as  for  the  elders,  they  are 
content.  They  live  as  they  have  always  lived — under  the 
law  of  management. 

It  is  not,  indeed,  an  unhappy  life,  that  of  the  petits  gens 
—the  folk  of  the  very  small  income.  They  have  to  make 
their  things  last  a long  while.  They  hardly  ever  have  as 
much  dinner  as  they  could  put  away  had  they  a free  hand, 
so  to  speak;  they  must  consider  the  penny  for  the  omnibus 
and  the  halfpenny  for  the  evening  paper.  Anything  that 
can  not  be  made  at  home  wants  money;  therefore  every- 
thing that  can  be  made  at  home  is  made  there.  The  clever 
husband  with  his  own  hands  and  the  family  gimlet  executes 
the  little  repairs  of  the  house  and  furniture.  Sometimes, 
but  not  often,  he  is  so  clever  that  he  can  actually  make 
things — cabinets,  chests  of  drawers,  picture-frames,  cup- 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


79 


boards,  garden  seats  and  benches.  His  wife  does  the  re- 
pairs of  all  the  garments  except  the  boots  (to  the  philoso- 
pher it  is  difficult  to  understand  why  she  has  not  long  since 
resolved  to  mend  the  boots  as  well  as  the  socks),  the  one 
servant  does  the  washing.  It  is  astonishing  how  much 
may  be  saved  when  husband  and  wife  are  thrifty  and  know 
how  to  manage.  Above  all,  and  as  the  first  consideration, 
one  must  not  eat  or  drink  too  much;  the  children  are  ex- 
pected to  finish  up  the  bread  and  butter,  and  not  to  ask 
for  more;  everything  is  doled;  the  tea  by  half  spoonful, 
the  milk  drop  by  drop,  as  if  it  were  a precious  cordial;  the 
butter  is  spread  thin  and  the  cheese  is  cut  in  bits  the  size 
of  dice.  Well,  they  have  always  been  accustomed  to  spare 
and  to  save;  it  is  their  life;  they  are  never  able  to  buy; 
they  must  manage. 

Among  the  families  of  Daffodil  Road  was,  until  a few 
weeks  ago,  one  which  differed  in  many  respects  from  those 
around  them.  The  differences  were  in  points  minute  to 
those  above  and  below,  but  of  great  importance  to  those  of 
the  same  level.  To  begin  with,  the  head  of  the  household, 
understood  to  be  by  birth  an  Australian,  was  in  appearance 
quite  unlike  the  rest  of  the  householders.  They,  for  the 
most  part,  are  small  in  stature  and  slight  in  figure.  They, 
mostly  in  middle  age,  incline  to  primness;  they  are  all, 
even  in  earliest  youth,  neat  in  apparel,  as  becomes  those 
who  are  taught  at  the  outset  the  mere  money  value  of  per- 
sonal appearance.  The  Australian  was  a big  man;  he  had 
a big  frame,  big  hands,  a big  head,  and  a big  brown  beard. 
He  was  careless  in  his  dress,  which  generally  consisted  of 
some  brown  stuff;  he  wore  a pot  hat;  he  had  such  small 
regard  for  appearance  that  he  smoked  a pipe  in  his  front 
garden;  he  was  irregular  in  his  church  attendance;  he  was 
not  respectful  to  the  clergy,  speaking  to  the  curate  as  if  ho 
was  his  equal.  He  was  always  genial,  always  ready  to  talk 
aud  to  laugh.  He  laughed  quite  freely,  this  singular 
young  man.  In  this  quarter  they  are  seldom  givep.  much 


80 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


to  mirth,  mere  idle  mirth,  because,  you  see,  they  must 
forever  be  thinking  of  management,  an  art  which  demands 
that  the  votaries  give  themselves  up  wholly  to  their  mistress. 

He  was  not,  in  fact,  in  the  least  point  like  a city  man. 
He  had  no  respect  for  wealth  and  cared  nothing  about 
money-making.  Now  to  these  simple  people  the  honor 
and  glory  of  toiling  all  day  long,  in  order  to  make  money 
for  their  masters,  is  increased  in  proportion  to  the  amount 
of  money  they  do  make.  When  the  year  has  been  fat  and 
the  garners  are  full,  they  swell  out  with  pride,  they  give 
themselves  airs  among  their  fellows.  Why  not?  It  is 
the  part  of  a good  servant,  says  the  copy-book,  which  we 
too  often  neglect,  to  rejoice  at  the  good  fortune  of  his  mas- 
ter. Such  observations  as  fell  from  the  lips  of  Mr.  George 
Humphrey  so  far  from  sympathizing  with  this  view  were 
calculated  even  to  make  the  clerks  ashamed  of  their  zeal. 
He  asked,  openly,  what  good  it  did  them  when  the  year’s 
balance  brought  an  extra  ten  thousand  or  so  into  their 
master’s  coffers. 

Of  course  his  profession  was  known.  It  was  that  of  jour- 
nalist. Your  true  city  man  regards  this  calling  with  un- 
concealed dislike.  The  pay  is  supposed  to  be  uncertain; 
there  are  no  regular  rises  in  salary;  a man  at  fifty  may 
make  no  more  than  a youth  of  twenty;  there  are  no  fixed 
hours.  To  a regular  and  methodical  man  the  alleged  un- 
certainties of  tjie  profession  make  it  abhorrent  and  ab- 
horred. Why,  the  journalist  does  not  even  want  an  office, 
a thing  granted  to  the  youngest  office-boy.  He  may  do 
his  work  at  home  while  his  wife  is  ironing  the  linen,  or  he 
may  sit  in  public-houses  and  write,  or  he  may  go  to  free 
libraries  and  write  there,  or  he  may  find  a corner  in  the 
printing-house  and  write  there;  or  he  may  even  write  in 
the  street — horrible!  There  is  no  dignity  in  such  a profes- 
sion. And  he  is  paid  by  the  job;  even  a leader  writer  gets 
so  much  for  his  article;  one  might  as  well  be  a working- 
man and  get  paid  by  the  piece. 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


81 


George  Humphrey  belonged,  it  is  true,  to  the  lower 
walks  of  journalism.  He  had  what  is  called  a permanent 
appointment  as  leader  writer,  paragraphist,  and  sub-editor 
of  the  Clerkland  44  Observer  ” — with  which  is  incorporated 
the  Arcadia  46  Gazette  99 — a local  paper  of  more  impor- 
tance than  those  who  only  read  the  64  Times  ” would  be- 
lieve. This  job  brought  him  in  two  pounds  a week,  but 
then  he  wrote  nearly  the  whole  paper  and  it  took  him  two 
days  and  a half  out  of  the  solid  week.  He  does  it  so  well 
that  when,  as  happened  regularly  once  every  two  months, 
he  had  business  which  took  him  out  of  town  for  three 
or  four  days,  the  proprietor  gives  him  leave  to  go  and  find 
a substitute.  In  the  remaining  three  and  a half  days  of 
the  week  George  Humphrey  occupied  himself  in  writing 
short  papers  for  magazines,  essays,  sketches,  notes  of 
travel,  papers  on  books  and  authors,  and  so  forth.  He 
was  a man  of  industry  and  reading;  he  had  traveled  much 
and  observed  much;  he  wrote  a pleasing  style  that  had 
flashes  and  sparks  of  brilliancy.  Consider  the  enormous 
number  of  weekly  journals  that  now  have  to  find  attractive 
stuff  for  their  insatiate  pages.  Paste  and  scissors  will  do  a 
great  deal,  but  it  will  not  do  everything.  Such  a man  as 
George  Humphrey,  with  so  much  experience  and  versa- 
tility, can  always  sell  his  productions,  even  if  he  can  not 
command  his  price.  This,  indeed,  varies  according  to  the 
liberality  of  the  proprietor  and  the  circulation  of  the  paper. 
It  varies  from  nothing  a column— one  could  tell  harrowing 
stories  were  this  the  place — up  to  a whole  pound  a column, 
which  was  George's  highest  price.  In  this  way  and  by 
working  twice  as  hard  as  any  man  in  any  other  calling  for 
the  same  money  he  made  an  income  large  for  the  place 
and  people  among  whom  he  lived,  and  no  more  precarious 
than  that  of  a doctor  or  that  of  a solicitor  in  practice, 
though  to  the  city  clerk  it  seemed  an  uncertain,  hand-to- 
mouth  way  of  living. 

The  wife  of  the  journalist  sat  at  her  open  window  one 


82 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


evening  in  May,  between  six  and  seven.  The  evenings  of 
the  sweet  spring  season  of  this  year  were  as  balmy  as  the 
poet’s  dream  of  May.  The  day  had  been  warm  and  bright; 
the  sloping  sun  shone  all  along  Daffodil  Road  upon  the 
rows  of  limes  in  their  pale,  chloral,  early  foliage;  upon  the 
lilacs  and  the  laburnums  and  the  hawthorn  all  in  full 
splendor;  upon  the  Virginia  creepers  fast  shooting  up  their 
long  buds.  Daffodil  Road  was  glorified.  It  has  two  such 
brief  periods  of  glory — one  in  the  spring,  too  often  spoiled 
by  prolonged  east  wind;  one  in  the  autumn,  also  too  often 
spoiled  by  September  rain  and  premature  frost. 

Mrs.  Humphrey  sat  at  her  window,  her  work  in  her 
hands,  the  cradle  of  her  baby  at  her  foot,  and  her  two- 
year-old  rolling  over  a ball  on  the  floor.  That  she  was 
happy  and  contented  was  manifest  by  her  attitude,  by  her 
repose,  by  the  low,  soft  croon  of  her  voice  as  she  bent  over 
her  sewing  or  looked  down  at  her  boy. 

Nettie  Humphrey  was  inclined  to  be  small  and  slight  in 
figure,  like  so  many  London  girls,  yet  taller  than  most. 
Her  shoulders  were  rather  narrow.  Her  head,  however, 
was  well  shaped  and  large  in  proportion  to  the  rest  of  her; 
her  features  were  regular  and  her  eyes  of  dark  blue — where 
did  she  get  those  dark-blue  eyes? — were  certainly  fine. 
Her  mouth,  firm  and  rather  square,  showed  the  possibility 
of  that  precious  quality  which  we  call  character.  The 
room  in  which  she  sat  was  furnished  in  a taste  quite  un- 
usual. For  this  quarter,  while  it  clings  to  a best  room 
which  it  has  not  quite  ceased  to  call  a best  parlor,  runs  to 
stiffness  and  ceremony,  loves  a central  table  with  books 
round  it  and  an  ornament  in  the  middle  of  it;  likes  to 
have  a looking-glass  over  the  fire-place,  insists  upon  a 
piano  even  though  nobody  can  play  upon  it,  and  covers  up 
every  chair  with  things  still  called  antimacassars,  the  name 
pointing  to  the  dark  ages  when  men  and  women  plastered 
their  hair  with  scented  grease  and  wore  it  long.  Moreover, 
the  taste  of  this  quarter  is  great  on  mantel-shelf  orna- 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


83 


ments,  inclining  still  to  hanging  crystals  and  pink  glass 
jars,  and  it  is  not  comfortable  without  a great  hanging 
gas  chandelier.  This  room,  on  the  other  hand,  looked  like 
a room  for  living  in;  there  was  a comfortable  couch  ready 
to  be  wheeled  up  to  the  fire;  there  were  two  easy-chairs; 
there  was  no  central  table;  there  was  no  gas  chandelier  at 
all;  there  was  no  great  looking-glass.  It  was  furnished,  in 
short,  as  if  Mr.  William  Morris  himself  had  been  asked  to 
step  in  and  do  what  he  thought  best.  On  the  walls  there 
were  pictures  which  the  visitors  could  not  understand — not 
their  idea,  you  see,  of  what  a picture  should  be — and  one 
side  of  the  room  was  clothed,  covered,  hidden  by  books. 

Nettie  looked  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel-shelf.  “ Half 
past  six,”  she  said.  He  will  not  come  home  before  eight 
at  earliest.” 

She  resumed  her  work  with  a little  sigh.  Then  she 
heard  footsteps  outside  and  got  up  to  open  the  door. 

Her  visitor  was  young,  like  herself,  and  a married  wom- 
an. She  wore  a hat  and  no  gloves,  “ I just  ran  across, 
Nettie,”  she  said,  throwing  herself  into  a chair.  64  It’s  so 
dull  at  home  when  there  is  no  work  to  be  done.  How’s 
baby?  How  are  you,  Georgie,  boy?  Where’s  George? 
How  do  you  like  your  new  bonnet?” 

She  was  Nettie’s  younger  sister  Victoria,  recently  mar- 
ried to  a clerk  in  a bank  on  a hundred  and  fifty.  Victoria 
was  like  her  sister,  but  smaller,  prettier  in  her  way,  yet  of 
much  less  consequence  to  look  at.  She  was  very  pretty, 
indeed,  of  a beauty  quite  common — the  small-sized  beauty, 
small,  regular  features,  bright,  gray  eyes,  light  hair  of  the 
fluffy  kind,  very  small  hands,  and  a mouth  which,  while  it 
certainly  might  be  called  a rosebud,  had  also  in  it  that 
slight  but  clear-cut  curve  which  should  be  dreaded  by 
lovers,  because  it  denotes  temper.  She  was  Venus  the 
Little,  and  Venus  with  the  vice  of  temper.  Mrs.  Venus 
the  Great — Venus  the  unapproachable — can  never  be  put 
into  a bad  temper.  It  is  impossible  for  her  to  be  in  a bad 


84 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


temper  even  with  those  whose  hearts  do  not  beat  at  the 
aspect  and  thought  of  her.  She  pities  them,  but  she  is 
not  irritated  by  the  coldness  of  such  natures. 

“ We  are  all  very  well,  Vic.  How  is  Charlie?” 

66  Charlie  went  off  this  morning  in  a hateful  temper. 
As  if  a woman  is  not  allowed  to  speak.  1 did  speak, 
though,  and  I will.  I dare  say  he  will  come  round  again 
during  the  day.  If  he  doesn’t  I don’t  care.  Sulking 
hurts  him  more  than  me.  What  have  you  got  here?  A 
new  chair?  My  goodness!  You  had  a new  chair  six 
months  ago.  My  dear,  no  income  could  stand  it.” 

6 6 George  buys  nothing  that  he  can  not  afford.  And  we 
are  saving  money.  Ho  not  worry  about  our  dreadful  ex- 
travagance, Vic  dear.  Mother  was  here  this  morning. 
She  had  a good  deal  to  say,  too,  about  the  butcher’s  bill.” 
“ Well,  it  isn’t  what  we  were  brought  up  to,  is  it?  As 
much  beef  and  mutton  as  you  like,  and  all  your  washing 
put  out  and  your  dresses  bought  readymade  for  you.” 
Vic  sighed.  “ You  ought  to  think  yourself  a lucky  girl, 
Nettie.  I wish  to  goodness  I had  your  housekeeping 
money.  But  there — it’s  no  use  wishing.  Some  day,  per- 
haps, when  Charlie  gets  made  assistant  manager — ” 

“ Patience,  Vic  dear.” 

The  girl  got  up  and  began  impatiently  turning  over  the 
things  on  the  table.  Among  them  was  a photograph 
album.  She  opened  it.  There  were  the  family  portraits 
— her  father,  with  a book  in  his  hand  and  the  look  of  a 
philosopher  equal  to  the  mightiest  problems — her  mother, 
with  a self-conscious  smile — herself,  looking  saucy,  more 
like  a chorister  in  a burlesque  than  a respectable  married 
woman — George,  big  and  bearded.  “Nettie,”  she  said, 
“ haven’t  you  got  any  photographs  of  George’s  relations? 
He  must  have  some,  you  know.  We’ve  all  got  father  and 
mother,  and  brothers  and  cousins — where  are  his?” 

They  are  in  Australia,  somewhere,” 


THE  DEMONIAC.  85 

“ Well,  if  I were  you  I’d  never  rest  till  I found  out  all 
about  them.” 

“ My  dear,  I do  know  all  about  them.” 

64  Their  names  and  their  professions.  They  may  be  only 
shop-keepers.  Not  that  I’d.  cast  that  in  George’s  teeth. 
As  Charlie  says,  we  can’t  all  be  born  gentlemen.  Though, 
to  be  sure,  I never  would  have  married  Charlie  unless  I 
knew  that  his  family  were  respectable.” 

66 1 am  perfectly  satisfied  upon  that  point,”  said  Nettie, 
with  dignity. 

“George,  certainly — whatever  people  think — seems  to 
be  all  right,”  said  her  sister,  doubtfully.  “ His  manners 
are  sometimes  free,  but  I suppose  it’s  Australian  ways. 
And  he  seems  to  be  making  good  money  in  his  way, 
though,  thank  goodness,  it  is  not  our  way.  Better  a small 
screw  and  certainty,  says  Charlie,  than  to  wake  up  every 
morning  without  knowing  what  you’ll  make  in  the  day. 
And  certainly  George  goes  on  sober,  and  he’s  kind  to  you 
and  fond  of  the  children.  He  might  listen  to  mother  with 
a little  more  patience.  But  we  don’t  know  his  family, 
that’s  very  certain.  And — a curious  thing,  Nettie — Char- 
lie was  talking  the  other  day  to  a gentleman,  an  old  school- 
fellow of  his,  who’s  been  out  to  Melbourne,  where  he  was 
an  auctioneer’s  clerk— well,  he  says  that  he  never  heard 
the  name  of  George  Humphrey  there  at  all.  I thought 
I’d  tell  you,  Nettie.” 

“ Thank  you  for  nothing,  Vic.  What  does  it  matter  to 
me  whether  Charlie’s  friend  has  heard  of  George  or  not? 
Melbourne  is  a big  place.  There  are  half  a million  people 
in  Melbourne.  Perhaps  George  has  never  heard  of  your 
auctioneer’s  clerk  ” 

“To  be  sure,  clerks  and  journalists,”  said  Victoria, 
putting  down  the  album  with  a little  sniff,  44  do  not  always 
mix  in  the  same  circles.  So  that,  as  you  say,  it  may  mean 
nothing.  But  when  it  comes  to  hiding  away  your  rela- 
tions as  if  you  were  ashamed  of  them;  never  talking  about 


86 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


them;  never  writing  to  them;  getting  no  letters  from 
them — what  does  it  point  to?  Everybody  thinks  the  same 
thing.  It  means  that  you  are  ashamed  of  your  relations. 
Well,  my  dear,  you’re  not  married  to  George’s  relations, 
are  you?  It  doesn’t  matter  much,  only  when  I go  on 
Sundays  to  take  tea  with  Charlie’s  mother,  and  all  in  a 
respectable  way,  I do  feel  a bit  sorry  for  you.  I dare  say 
it’s  all  right.  You’ve  got  more  housekeeping  money  than 
your  mother  and  me  put  together.  You’ve  lots  to  be 
grateful  for.  Your  babies  are  beauties,  and  as  for  your 
things  and  your  furniture,  though  this  is  not  my  idea  of  a 
best  room,  they  are  as  good  as  can  be.  You’re  far  better 
off  than  before  you  were  married.  So  that  it  would  be  a 
thousand  pities  if  you  were  to  find  out  anything,  wouldn’t 
it?  or  if  your  money  was  to  vanish  away,  wouldn’t  it?” 

Nettie  nodded  and  laughed.  She  was  not  in  the  least 
alarmed  or  vexed  by  these  gloomy  forebodings.  In  fact 
she  was  used  to  them.  Her  family  never  failed  to  warn 
her  that  fortune  is  fickle,  that  no  one  knew  her  husband’s 
relations,  and  that  he  had  no  fixed  salary.  Her  sister  Yic 
especially  gathered  consolation  from  considering  these 
dangers.  Her  own  housekeeping  required  the  most  watch- 
ful management;  her  “ things”  were  on  a very  limited 
scale,  but  then  she  was  safe  with  her  husband.  She  knew 
his  family;  he  had  a safe  income,  though  it  was  small;  her 
sister,  on  the  other  hand,  though  she  spent  so  much 
money,  was  married  to  an  adventurer  whose  family  was  a 
mystery  and  who  neglected  his  church.  I do  not  suppose 
that  she  actively  desired  her  sister’s  ruin,  but  she  certainly 
consoled  herself  iu  times  of  the  greater  tightness  with 
thinking  of  her  sister’s  perils. 

When  Victoria  was  gone  Nettie  worked  on  in  silence. 
She  knew  very  well,  she  said  to  herself,  all  that  there  was 
to  know  about  her  husband.  His  father  had  land  up 
country — outside  Melbourne;  he  himself  had  no  brothers 
or  sisters;  he  had  inherited  this  bit  of  land  and  a trifle;  he 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


87 


had  been  educated  and  was  now  in  England  making  a liv- 
ing, and  a very  fair  living,  too,  by  journalism.  Every- 
thing was  quite  straightforward;  nothing  to  hide.  Yet  to 
her  own  family  the  case  was  full  of  mystery. 

Another  &tep  outside  the  door.  This  time  her  brother 
Horatio. 

The  Patager  family  consisted  of  Mr.  Samuel  Patager 
and  his  spouse,  two  sons— Horatio  and  Herbert — and  two 
daughters — Antoinette  and  Victoria.  The  selection  of  the 
Christian  name  is  in  all  classes  of  society  a matter  of  great 
delicacy  and  importance.  What  names  more  happy  than 
those  four?  The  daughters  happily  married ; one  of  the 
sons  married,  there  remained  under  the  paternal  roof  the 
younger  son,  Horatio.  By  trade  Horatio  was  a clerk,  by 
profession  a bounder.  No  more  illustrious  bounder  than 
Horatio  in  the  whole  quarter.  In  his  bounding  he  prac- 
ticed as  far  as  his  means  allowed  all  those  arts  and  accom- 
plishments belonging  to  the  profession;  he  dressed  as  well 
as  things  would  allow,  with  an  eye  to  the  latest  fashion; 
he  played  billiards,  he  talked  of  actresses,  he  attended 
dancing  classes,  he  spoke  familiarly  of  things  unattainable, 
he  put  shillings  or  half  crowns — when  he  had  any  to  spare 
— on  the  favorite.  He  smoked  pigarettes.  He  was,  in 
short,  a commonplace,  pasty-faced,  unwholesome  young 
man,  who  should  have  been  taken  away  and  made  to  serve 
in  the  ranks  for  two  years. 

The  other  brother,  Herbert,  was  a good  young  man. 
By  profession  he  was  a good  young  man.  He  belonged  to 
a guild  which  entitled  him  on  occasions  to  wear  a beauti- 
ful long  black  cassock.  He  attended  services  at  odd  hours; 
he  saved  his  money;  he  was  trustworthy  in  his  business; 
he  really  was  very  good.  He  does  not  belong  to  this  sto^. 
Let  us,  therefore,  with  a word  of  gratitude  for  one  good 
young  man  in  this  world  of  wickedness,  pass  him  by.  It 
was  Horatio  who  called  upon  his  sister — not  Herbert — Ho- 
ratio the  Bounder. 


88 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


“ I say,  Nettie,”  he  whispered,  looking  round  the  room, 
66  George  not  about,  is  he?” 

“ No,  George  has  not  come  home  yet.” 

“Look  here,  Nettie,  Pm  stone  broke.  Lend  me  five 
bob,  there’s  a good  girl.  Only  five  bob,  unless  you  like  to 
make  it  six.” 

“ No,”  she  replied,  shortly,  “ 1 have  not  got  any  money 
to  lend.  You  ought  to  know  that.  ” 

“ George  gives  you  as  much  as  you  like.  Lend  me  five 
bob,  and  you  shall  have  it  back  on  Monday.  Put  it  down 
to  the  house.  He  won’t  find  out.” 

“ Now,  Horatio,”  Nettie  replied,  “ if  you  dare  to  say 
such  a thing  again,  I will  tell  George,  and  he  will — ” 

“ What  will  George  do,  1 should  like  to  know?” 

“ Well,  perhaps  he  would  take  you  up  by  your  collar 
and  give  you  a good  shaking.  He  could,  you  know,  quite 
easily.  ” 

“ Oh,  would  he!  I should  like  to  see  him.” 

He  was  small  and  insignificant  to  look  at,  but  he  fired 
up  at  this  insult  and  looked  for  the  moment  quite  valiant. 

“ If  that  is  all  you’ve  come  to  say,  Horry,  you  had  bet- 
ter go  away  at  once.” 

“ A nice  sister  you  are,  to  care  more  about  your  own 
husband  than  your  own  brother.  Why,  there  isn’t  an- 
other woman  in  the  world  who  would  be  as  mean  as  you. 
Your  husband,  indeed!” 

“He  does  behave  better  than  my  own  brother,”  said 
Nettie.  “ He  doesn’t  go  about  to  billiard-rooms,  and  he 
doesn’t  spend  his  money  in  music-halls.  And  now  go,  or 
1 shall  tell  George  what  you  say,  and  you  will  see  how  he 
looks  when  he  is  angry.” 

“ I don’t  care  how  he  looks.  I say,  Nettie,  some  day  I 
will  find  out  what  he  has  done,  and  why  he  is  in  hiding, 
and  then  it’ll  be  my  turn.  See  if  it  won’t.  Talk  of  tak- 
ing me  up  by  the  collar.  I’ll  have  the  knife  in,  Nettie, 
and  I’ll  twist  it.  Who  is  he?  Where  are  his  family? 


THE  DEMONIAC.  89 

Him  to  be  setting  sister  against  brother!  Well,  Pil  be 
even  with  him.” 

He  disappeared.  It  will  be  seen  that  the  “ family  ” be- 
tween them  caused  Nettie  a good  many  disagreeable  mo- 
ments. She  knew  her  family.  She  recognized  the  natu- 
ral working  of  jealousy,  which  is  only  assuaged  when  its 
object  is  pulled  down  a peg  or  two.  But  she  was  irritated 
by  the  persistence  of  their  attacks. 

She  had  one  more  visitor.  This  time  it  was  her  father, 
tempted  out  by  the  beauty  of  the  morning. 

The  elder  Patager  suggested  by  his  appearance  and  man- 
ner that  he  was  the  confidential  derk  of  a tall,  portly,  and 
pompous  city  magnate.  For  he  was  himself,  though  not 
tall,  somewhat  portly,  as  if,  with  a more  generous  diet  he 
might  assume  really  aldermanic  proportions;  and  he  was  a 
little  pompous  out  of  office  hours,  as  if  he  imitated  his 
chief  at  a respectful  distance.  His  face  was  full,  but 
wanting  in  the  true  city  fullness,  such  fullness  as  cometh 
of  turtle  soup.  He  spoke  slowly  and  with  the  air  of  one 
delivering  a judgment— yet  the  judgments  were  weak. 
He  seemed  to  endeavor  after  a sonorous  voice,  but  the  re- 
sult was  feeble.  One  whose  conduct  of  life  was  really  gov- 
erned by  the  strictest  sense  of  what  was  right.  There  is 
no  employe  in  the  world  so  honest,  so  regular,  so  zealous 
or  so  trustworthy  as  a good,  elderly,  life-long  city  clerk. 
He  is  above  suspicion  and  beyond  temptation.  He  holds 
no  socialistic  views  as  to  the  division  of  the  spoil.  He  is 
contented  with  his  own  salary.  He  has  done  better  in  the 
struggle  of  life  than  many  other  mem  Let  us  recognize 
the  many  virtues  of  the  man  who  keeps  all  the  books  for 
the  vast  trade  in  the  great  city  of  London,  and  keeps  them 
honestly  and  exactly.  Every  such  clerk,  in  the  course  of 
a long  and  laborious  life,  builds  up  for  himself,  if  it  were 
only  acknowledged,  a monument  of  ledgers  as  high  as  the 
dome  of  St.  PauFs. 


THE  DEMOHIAC. 


90 

46  Well,  my  dear. " Nettie  was  his  favorite,  chiefly  be- 
cause her  tongue  lacked  the  readiness  and  the  sharpness 
that  belonged  to  certain  other  tongues  in  his  household. 
44  On  such  an  evening  one  is  tempted  to  forego  the  intel- 
lectual pursuits  proper  to  the  time  of  day,  so  I thought  1 
would — yes — put  down  the  evening  paper  and  look  in. 
This,  room  always  looks  comfortable,  my  dear — perhaps 
because  you  are  in  it,  though  your  mother  doesn't  hold 
with  the  style.  And  how's  George — out  still  looking  for 
jobs?  An  anxious  life — incessant  anxiety.  Nothing  safe 
or  secure  about  it.  Give  me  the  regular  salary  and  absence 
from  care." 

Nettie  laughed.  44  There  isn't  much  worry  about 
George,  to  look  at  him.  He  eats  well  and  sleeps  well." 

44  But  nothing  regular.  A day-by-day  life.  Well,  well, 
we  can  not  all  be  in  the  city.  It's  something  to  learn  that 
work  keeps  up — something— something  to  Warn  so  much." 

44  Oh,  the  work  is  all  right.  It  never  was  better." 

44 1 am  free  to  confess,  my  dear,"  the  father  began, 
with  his  approach  to  pomposity,  “that  I was  originally 
deterred  by  the  considerations — " 

44  Now  you  are  going  to  say  that  George  is  only  a jour- 
nalist. I have  heard  it  so  many  times  already."  Nettie 
was  getting  irritated  by  their  continued  reflections  on  her 
husband's  calling. 

44 1 was  about  to  say  that  the  uncertainty  of  the  work, 
coupled—" 

44  No  fear  about  the  work,  father.  Don't  worry  about 
George.  You've  got  enough  to  worry  about  with  Horatio. 
And  look  here,  father,  it's  time  that  things  were  left  off 
• — you  know  what  I mean — things  about  George.  Else 
there  may  be  trouble.  Victoria  comes  to-day  and  Horry 
after  her,  and  both  with  the  same  story,  as  if  there  was 
anything  hidden  about  George,  What  is  there  to  hide? 
What  do  you  want  to  know  that  you  don't  know?" 

44  My  dear,  when  you  allow  your  daughter  to  marry  a 


THE  DEMONIAC.  91 

stranger  you  naturally  ask  yourself  whether  that  stranger 
belongs  to  a respectable' family.”  • 

“ You  should  have  asked  him  three  years  ago,  then. 
You  did  ask — and  so  did  I — and  I am  satisfied.5/ 

“ Every  man  has  got  relations— even  in  Australia.  He 
must  have  a father  and  a mother. 55 

“ George’s  parents  are  dead.55 

“ To  shake  hands  even  with  a cousin  would  be  a satis- 
faction.55 

“Go  to  Australia,  then,  and  shake  hands  with  him 
there.  Seriously,  father,  I can’t  have  these  things  said 
any  longer  by  my  own  family.  If  they  were  said  by  any 
one  else  I should  very  soon  tell  George.  Then  I know 
what  he  would  do.  He  would  go  away;  he  would  take  his 
family  away.” 

“ I sometimes  think,”  said  her  father  in  meditation, 
“ that  they  would  be  actually  glad  if  George  was  found 
out  in  something.  They’re  always  talking  about  him  that 
way.” 

“ I believe  they  would.”  . 

The  personal  pronoun  of  the  plural  may  mean  a great 
deal.  In  this  case  it  meant  the  mother,  Victoria,  and  her 
brothers. 

“ Words  can  not  break  bones,  Nettie.” 

“ They  may  break  love,  though.  If  I am  expected  any 
longer  to  sit  in  patience  while  my  husband  is  slandered  I 
shall  have  to  consider — that’s  all,  father.  And  you  had 
better  tell  them  so. 55 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BON  MARI. 

At  eight  o’clock  the  garden  door  swung  open  and  a 
ponderous  step  on  the  gravel  announced  the  return  of  the 
master.  Though  she  had  been  married  for  three  long 
years,  Nettie  sprung  from  her  chair  and  ran  to  meet  and 


92 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


greet  her  husbaj^L  He  came  in — the  man  whom  you  have 
already  seen  under  another  name — big,  bearded,  his  coun- 
tenance ruddy  and  cheerful.  Remembering  the  wise 
physician's  prophecy,  you  might  expect  certain  outward 
and  visible  signs  of  decay.  Nothing  of  the  kind  was  visi- 
ble. Some  of  the  old  light  gone,  some  of  the  old  eager- 
ness vanished;  but  then  he  is  three  or  four  years  older. 
Besides,  a big  man  can  not  preserve  his  youthful  alacrity; 
he  can  not  be  alert;  his  length  of  limb  and  his  breadth  of 
shoulder  will  not  allow  the  exhibition  of  these  qualities;  he 
must  move  with  a certain  slowness.  Hence  it  has  followed 
that  the  great  men  of  the  world  have  always  been  the  little 
men. 

He  came  into  the  room,  his  wife  hanging  on  his  arm, 
and  sat  down  with  the  sigh  of  one  who  has  knocked  off  for 
the  day. 

“ Have  you  been  busy  to-day,  dear?"  she  asked.  “ Are 
you  tired?" 

He  patted  her  cheek  gently.  “ I have  done  a good 
day's  work,"  he  said,  “ and  I claim  the  right  to  be  cross 
and  hungry  and  tired.  And  you,  Nettie?" 

66 1 will  be  cross  and  tired  as  well,  then.  The  children 
have  been  very  good.  Vie  looked  in— and  father;  Vie  was 
rather  dissatisfied  and  cross.  I'm  afraid  she  doesn't  man- 
age very  well,  and,  poor  thing!  she  has  got  to  manage  so 
much.  Well,  dear?" 

He  drew  her  within  his  great  arms  and  kissed  her  twice 
fondly. 

Three  years  before  he  had  assured  a certain  learned 
physician  that  he  could  never  again  care  much  for  any 
human  creature;  that  meant  that  having  found  it  neces- 
sary to  break  off  one  engagement,  he  did  not  feel  for  the 
moment  equal  to  beginning  another.  The  learned  physi- 
cian informed  him  in  reply  that  loneliness  would  prove  too 
much  for  him.  Prophetic  physician! 

He  came  to  this  part  of  London.  He  drew  money 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


93 


enough  to  keep  himself  going;  he  proposed  to  make  this 
serve,  and  for  the  future  to  keep  himself  by  his  own  work. 
When  such  a man,  untrained  for  any  profession,  thinks  of 
work  he  turns  to  journalism.  Formerly  he  turned  to 
teaching;  now  he  goes  to  the  nearest  newspaper.  In  the 
same  way,  women  formerly,  if  they  were  compelled  to 
work  for  themselves,  could  think  of  nothing  but  govern- 
essing.  Now,  if  that  calamitous  necessity  falls  upon  them, 
there  are  a hundred  ways. 

George  became  a journalist;  that  is,  he  offered  himself 
to  a local  paper.  For  the  wages  of  a grocer’s  assistant  he 
began  to  furnish  sketches,  to  look  up  things  of  local 
interest,  and  to  make  himself  useful.  He  succeeded;  he 
got  on  so  well  that  he  was  now  sub-editor;  that  is  to  say, 
he  edited  the  paper,  but  the  proprietor  put  his  own  name 
at  the  top. 

Presently  he  widened  his  work,  as  you  have  seen,  and 
began  to  work  for  magazines. 

He  lived  alone  in  lodgings.  He  knew  no  one  at  all,  he 
made  no  attempt  to  make  friends,  and  once  in  two  months 
Mavis  called  for  him  and  took  him  away  for  two  or  three 
days. 

He  presently  found  his  life  intolerably  dull.  He  tried 
to  brighten  it  by  going  to  places  of  amusement.  They 
amused  him  no  longer. 

Then  he  made  an  acquaintance.  She  was  in  the  post- 
office.  He  got  into  the  habit  of  speaking  to  her  when  he 
bought  stamps.  It  is  quite  easy  to  exchange  a word  or 
two  of  simple  courtesy  with  a young  lady  who  serves  out 
the  stamps  and  receives  the  telegrams.  He  discovered  she 
was  a pretty  girl — nay,  a very  pretty  girl — that  she  had 
really  beautiful  eyes  and  that  she  seemed,  besides,  to  be  a 
quiet  girl  of  good  manners. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  he  met  her  in  the  street.  He 
took  off  his  hat.  He  assumed  the  position  of  an  old  ac- 
quaintance. He  walked  with  her.  He  informed  her  of 


04 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


his  name  and  his  profession  and  the  place  of  his  residence. 
He  obtained  permission  to  see  her  home  when  she  left  her 
office  next  day.  He  went  back  to  his  own  lodgings  a new 
man — in  love  once  more. 

Now  she  was  his  wife  and  the  mother  of  his  two  chil- 
dren, the  dispenser  of  his  wealth.  But  he  had  not  yet  for 
her  sake  dared  to  meet  and  to  grapple  with  that  fiend. 
Still,  after  the  stated  interval.  Mavis  called  for  him.  Still 
he  went  away  stimulated  by  the  suggestions  of  the  faithful 
man-servant  and  by  force  of  habit  and  by  the  djevil  into 
the  craving  which  demanded  that  he  should  become  a 
drunken  hog.  That  continued  but  it  did  not  increase. 
The  devil  took  his  tax — two  days  or  three  at  the  most — 
every  two  months.  The  rest  he  might  give  to  virtue,  tem- 
perance, and  self-restraint. 

66  George,”  his  wife  said,  presently,  her  thoughts  still 
running  upon  the  question  of  her  husband’s  people,  44  this 
glorious  sunshine  makes  you  think  of  Australia,  1 sup- 
pose. ” 

44  Sometimes,  and  of  other  countries  when  the  sun  is 
warm.” 

44  And  of  your  own  people,  too.  Wouldn’t  you  like  to 
see  some  of  them  again?” 

44  My  own  people?  Oh,  yes — perhaps,”  he  replied,  care- 
lessly. 44  What  made  you  think  of  my  cousins,  Nettie?  I 
am  not  very  anxious  to  see  my  cousins,  I think.  What 
made  you  think  of  them?” 

44 1 don’t  know.  At  least — But  it  doesn’t  matter, 
George.” 

44  When  one  has  no  nearer  relations  than  cousins — first, 
second,  or  third — one  does  not  think  very  much  about  re- 
lations, I suppose.  1 have  had  no  communication  with 
any  of  mine  for  four  or  five  years.  1 wonder,”  he  added, 
reflectively,  44  if  they  think  1 am  dead.  Because,  in  that 
case-—”  he  paused,  with  a little  chuckle, 

44  Are  they  rich  people?” 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


95 


“ Some  of  them  are  very  rich  indeed.  But  we  mustn’t 
look  to  them  for  any  help.  Nobody  is  less  inclined  to  help 
a man  than  a rich  cousin.  He  is  ashamed  of  poor  rela- 
tions, to  begin  with/* 

4 4 They’ve  no  call  to  be  ashamed  of  you,  George.  And 
we  don’t  want  their  money.” 

44  Certainly  not.  They  may  go  their  way,  while  we  go 
ours.” 

44  Do  they  live  in  Australia?” 

44  None  of  them  live  in  Australia.  They  all  live  here  in 
England.  When  they  do  invite  us  to  visit  them  next  we 
will  go  together,  so  that  you  may  see  their  grandeur.” 

44  Perhaps,  dear,  they  may  help  the  boys  when  the  time 
'comes.” 

44  The  boys,  I hope,  will  help  themselves.  You  see,  my 
dear,  I am  perfectly  certain  that  they  will  not  think  my 
boys  in  want  of  any  help.” 

44  Do  they  know,  George,  where  you  are  and  that  you 
are  married?” 

44  Well,  you  remember  that  your  father  put  a notice  of 
the  marriage  in  the  paper.  Perhaps  they  saw  that.” 

44  Perhaps.” 

44  Nettie,  my  dear  ” he  drew  her  to  sit  upon  his  knee, 
while  he  lay  back,  his  head  in  his  hands — “let  us  not 
talk  about  rich  cousins,  but  about  being  rich.  How 
should  you  like  to  be  rich  now?” 

44  I don’t  know;  what  do  you  call  rich?  Four  hundred 
pounds  a year?” 

44  No;  five  thousand,  ten  thousand  a year— all  to  spend.” 

44 1 can’t  think  of  so  much;  we  could  never  spend  so 
much,  nor  half.” 

44  Try  to  think  of  being  so  rich;  try  to  understand  what 
it  means  to  be  rich.  1 believe  that  a dream  of  great  wealth 
is  the  commonest  dream  of  all.  Did  you  never  dream 
what  you  would  do  if  you  were  rich?” 

44  No,  I never  did.  It  would  be  foolish.  Father  used 


96 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


to  be  fond  of  saying  what  he  would  do  if  he  were  rich. 
His  thoughts  lay  on  great  houses  and  gardens  and  a car- 
riage. I think,  too,  he  would  like  to  have  an  office  and  a 
staff  of  clerks.  But  that’s  the  way  of  a man  always  to  be 
thinking  of  something  different.  Thinking  and  wishing 
won’t  alter  things.  A woman  understands  what  is  before 
her  and  makes  the  best  of  it.  Many  men,  1 am  sure, 
never  understand  exactly  what  they  are.  My  brother 
Horry,  for  instance.” 

“No,  my  dear.  Horatio  Patager  certainly  does  not  yet 
understand  himself.” 

“ Then,  you  see,  it  is  so  silly  of  people  in  our  station  to 
dream  about  getting  rich.  When  a boy  is  made  a clerk  he 
ought  to  .understand  to  begin  with  that  he  can  never  be- 
come rich.” 

“Like  a Franciscan  when  he  assumes  the  triple  cord, 
he  renounces  wealth.  The  modern  Franciscan  is  the  city 
clerk.  ” 

“ He  must  be  content  to  live  respectably  and  to  do  his 
duty,  and  to  set  an  example  of  honesty  and  moral  princi- 
ple to  those  beneath  him  in  station.” 

“ Quite  right,  Nettie  dear.  It  is  only  since  I have 
known  you  that  1 have  properly  estimated  the  breadth  and 
the  depth  of  the  influence  exercised  by  the  city  clerk.” 

“ Father  was  never  rich.  That  is  certain.  But  we  have 
always  been  most  respected.  Nobody  can  deny  that.” 

“ Consider,  my  dear.  Give  reins  to  your  imagination. 
If  you  were  rich,  you  would  have  no  anxieties.  At  present 
your  happiness  depends  upon  my  health  and  strength. 
They  may  fail.  If  you  were  rich  you  would  not  think 
about  me  so  much  perhaps.” 

“ Then  1 could  not  love  you  so  much,  dear.” 

“ The  boys  would  have  the  best  education — ” 

“ And  learn  to  grow  up  idle,  and  so  get  into  mischief.” 

“ You  would  have  your  carriage  and  your  servants  and 
a big  house,  ” 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


97 


Nettie  shook  her  head.  “These  things  do  not  attract 
me.  Why  do  you  keep  harping  on  rich  people,  George?” 

“ Partly,  my  dear,  from  a habit  of  curious  speculation. 
Partly  because  there  seems  a chance — just  a chance — of 
our  really  becoming  better  off.” 

“Oh!  better  off.  That  1 don't  say — ” 

“ Yes,  a good  deal  better  off.  It  is  an  opening.  An 
offer— provisional,  of  course — that  1 have  had  made  to  me 
in  connection  with  a West  End  paper.  If  anything  comes 
of  it,  why,  then,  you  would  have  to  prepare  yourself  for  a 
considerable  increase  to  your  income,  madame.  ” 

“Oh!  How  much?” 

“ Last  year  1 made  three  hundred  pounds.  What  do 
you  say  to  six  hundred?” 

“ George!  It  is  impossible!  Six  hundred?” 

“ Improbable,  my  dear,  not  impossible.  To  the  jour- 
nalist, as  to  the  engineer,  nothing  is  impossible.  We  do 
not  know  the  word.  But  we  must  consider  before  we 
make  a bid  for  this  vast  income.  Being  poor,  my  dear, 
has  many  advantages.  I never  knew  how  good  a thing  it 
was  to  be  poor  until — until  1 married  you,  Nettie  dear.” 

“ Not  that  we  are  poor  at  all,  George.  And  now  come 
to  supper.” 

After  supper  George  began  to  talk  about  poverty.  He 
persisted  in  regarding  himself  and  his  wife  as  poor  people, 
though  they  had  quite  the  nicest  house  in  Daffodil  Road, 
with  every  room  furnished  and  paid  for,  and  nothing  on 
the  hire  system,  and  though  his  wife  had  nearly  a hundred 
pounds  of  her  own,  all  saved  since  her  marriage  and  stand- 
ing to  her  name  in  the  Post-Office  Savings  Bank. 

“ You  see,”  he  said,  “ how  simple  is  our  Jife — how  few 
are  our  wants  as  we  live  now.  If  we  had  more  money  the 
wants  would  increase — the  simplicity  would  vanish.” 

“I  am  sure,”  his  wife  replied,  “that  we  have  every- 
thing we  want.  We  ought  to  be  very  happy,  George  dear, 
and  I am,  too.  ” She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm  fondly. 


08 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


“ Very  happy,  my  dear,  thanks  to  you.  Who  could  be 
unhappy  with  such  a husband.” 

He  kissed  her.  Then  he  filled  and  lighted  his  pipe. 

46  If  you  are  happy,  my  dear,”  he  said,  slowly,  44  that 
illustrates  my  point.  We  live  and  we  are  contented.  Why 
want  more?” 

44 1 want  nothing  more.  I am  quite  contented,  dear. 
Yet  I think  we  should  try  to  get  more  for  many  reasons. 
Because  we  shall  grow  old.  And  because  of  the  children. 
And  because  you  may  fall  ill  and  be  disabled  from  work. 
Therefore  we  must  always  try  for  more.” 

44  Let  us,  however,  consider  further,”  George  continued. 
44  We  occupy  at  present  an  obscure  station  and  have  few 
responsibilities;  no  one  expects  anything  of  us;  we  have 
few  opportunities  of  cheating  our  employers  or  sweating 
our  servants.  My  employer,  for  instance,  the  proprietor 
of  the  Clerkland  4 Gazette/  with  which  is  incorporated  the 
Arcadia  4 Observer/ can,  and  does  sweat  me.  I remark 
the  fact  without  rancor.  The  practice  hurts  me  little;  it 
keeps  me  poor,  in  constant  occupation,  and  in  good  train- 
ing. It  hurts  the  proprietor  more  than  it  hurts  me.  It 
damages  and  weakens,  you  see,  his  moral  fiber;  I watch  it 
weakening;  it  makes  the  downward  slope  easier  for  his 
poor  feet.  I look  to  see  him  presently  accelerate  the  pace 
and — swish!— glide  swiftly  out  of  sight  into  the  chasm 
below.” 

44  No  one  talks  like  you,  George.  No  wonder  the  curate 
says  you  are  above  your  station.  A remarkably  well-in- 
formed man,  he  said  to  father.” 

George  laughed  pleasantly. 

44  No  man,  my  dear,  can  be  above  his  station.  He  may 
be — he  often  is — below  it.  'Sometimes  I think  that  even 
the  curate.  But  no.  Any  man  may  adorn  his  station,  but 
he  can  not  rise  above  it.  To  return.  Consider  another 
point.  We  have  two  boys,  the  image,  I am  pleased  to 
think,  of  their  mother.  These  boys,  when  they  grow  up. 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


99 


will  perhaps  begin  to  form  and  to  nourish  ambitions — even 
in  this  suburb  ambitions  may  spring  in  the  youthful  heart. 
It  is  not  given  to  every  man  to  become  the  contented 
clerk.  Now,  if  that  should  prove  happily  to  be  the  case, 
they  would  have  the  whole  world  before  them — every  line 
is  open  to  them.  The  son  of  Croesus  has  no  such  choice. 
His  ambitions  may  be  soaring,  but  his  field  is  limited. 
When  you  come  to  think  rightly  of  it,  to  be  so  near  the 
bottom  with  the  ladder  all  round  you  by  which  you  may 
climb  to  dizzy  heights  in  any  direction  you  please  and  the 
lowest  rungs  all  within  easy  reach  and  open  to  choice,  it  is 
glorious!  It  is  splendid!” 

The  wife  shook  her  head.  66 1 hope  the  boys  will  go  on 
contented  with  their  lot  and  as  happy  as  we’ve  always 
been.  I don’t  believe  in  grandeur.  It  only  leads  to  wild 
ways.” 

66  Perhaps.  Another  reason  for  remaining  poor.  Wild 
ways,  indeed!  Wild  ways!  For  the  likes  of  us!” 

64  And  we  are  not  poor,  George,”  his  wife  insisted. 
44  We  are  most  respectable  people,  Father  always  says 
that  ours  is  the  one  class  that  keeps  the  country  honest. 
We  do  all  the  work  and  the  chiefs  take  all  the  money. 
Down  below  there  is  drink.  Up  above  there  is  profligacy. 
That’s  what  father  says.  With  us,  there  is  honesty,  fidel- 
ity and  moral  principle.  We  don’t  cheat  like  the  trades- 
man. We  don’t  grind  like  the  capitalist.  We  don’t  drink 
like  the  working-man — ” 

44  And  we  don’t  profligate  like  the  House  of  Lords. 
Your  father  is  always  right,  my  dear  Nettie.  He  is  a most 
valuable  member  of  the  State,  and  so  are  all  your  relations 
except  your  brother  Horatio.  He,  I confess — ” 

44  Poor  Horry!” 

44  Let  us  return.  Folks  who  are  not  exactly  poor — like 
ourselves — are  not  introspective  nor  retrospective.” 

44 1 don’t  know  what  it  means,  George,  but  I am  glad 

we  are  not,  ” 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


44  We  look  not  backward  or  forward.  Disease,  for  ex- 
ample, we  do  not  regard  as  hereditary.  This  saves  us  a 
great  deal  of  trouble  and  anxiety.  We  take  no  precau- 
tions, yet  we  do  not  sit  down  in  despair.  For  instance, 
there  is  the  hereditary  disease  of  drink.  Suppose  one  of 
our  boys  was  to  break  out  in  that  direction?” 

44 1 can  not  suppose.  It  is  impossible,”  the  wife  inter- 
posed. 44  My  boys,  indeed!  Your  boys,  George!  To  take 
to  drink?  Impossible!” 

44  Quite  impossible,  which  is  the  reason  why  I ask  you  to 
suppose  it.  His  friends  call  him  a toper,  a drunkard,  a 
coward,  a disgrace  to  his  family.  He  feels  that  he  must 
fight  against  it;  there  is  nothing  else  possible  for  him.  If 
he  does  not  he  will  even  lose  his  livelihood.  Now,  if  he 
were  a rich  man  he  would  sit  down;  he  would  say — 4 1 am 
a victim  of  heredity.  There  is  no  use  in  struggling/  ” 

44  Then  he  would  be  a fool  for  his  pains.  But  nobody 
could  be  such  a fool  as  that.” 

44 1 dare  say  he  would.  A wiser  plan  would  have  been 
to  avert  the  disease  by  ordinary  precautions.  Physicians 
are  agreed,  I believe,  that  disease  may  be  more  easily 
averted  than  cured.  Well,  my  dear,  we  are  all  of  us  act- 
ively engaged  in  the  course  of  our  lives  in  manufacturing 
diseases,  tendencies,  weak  places  for  our  children  and  the 
generation  to  come,  and  we  are  at  the  same  time  suffering 
from  the  diseases  which  our  fathers  were  so  good  as  to 
create  for  us.  Sometimes  1 think  that  we  shall  hereafter 
take  turn  about,  become  our  own  grandsons,  and  so  inherit 
our  own  creations.” 

44  We  know  that  it  is^not  so,  George,”  said  his  wife,  sol- 
emnly. 44  As  the  tree  falls—” 

44  Quite  so.  Well,  my  dear,  we  who  live  a simple  life 
transmit  a simplicity  of  living,  a plain  habit  and  healthy 
temperance.  Some  of  our  good  friends  have  inherited 
puny  bodies  and  tiny  brains.  Well,  they  are  not  conscious 


THE  DEMOHIAC.  101 

of  their  inheritance.  That  is  a distinct  gain.  They  can, 
therefore,  go  on  hoping  and  can  go  on  working.” 

“ They  do  their  duty,  George,  and  in  that  state  of 

life—” 

“ They  do,  my  dear.  They  faithfully  do.  And  they 
have  their  reward.”  If  Mrs.  Humphrey  had  any  fault  to 
find  with  her  husband  it  was  that  he  so  often  interrupted 
these  little  extracts  from  the  hymn-book  and  the  prayer- 
book  which  pious  ladies  receive  as  the  very  Word.  Wrhat 
more  would  have  followed  we  shall  never  know,  because  at 
the  point  there  was  a knock  at  the  door. 

The  late  visitor  was  none  other  than  the  interesting  aud 
zealous  servant.  Mavis.  But  he  was  a servant  no  longer. 
It  was  Mr.  Mavis.  As  such  Mrs.  Humphrey  shook  hands 
with  him.  He  stood  in  the  door-way  without  saying  a 
word.  His  eyes  dropped. 

“ Well?”  asked  George,  changing  color.  “You  here 
again?” 

“ To-night  if  you  are  ready,”  he  replied,  quietly. 

“ Business  in  Boston  again?  So  soon?”  asked  the  wife. 
“ How  quick  the  time  comes  round.” 

“ Business  it  is,  and  in  Boston,  madame,”  said  Mr. 
Mavis.  “ Train  at  ten  sharp  if  that  suits  you.” 

He  sat  down,  his  hat  in  his  hands,  waiting.  He  was  no 
longer  the  servant,  which  was  shown  by  his  taking  a chair, 
but  he  looked  like  one  still.  One  never  shakes  off  the 
manners  of  a servant. 

“ HI  pack  your  bag,  George,”  said  his  wife,  with  a 
sigh.  “ I had  forgotten.  I suppose  it  is  two  months  since 
you  went  there  last.  And  since  it  is  business  that  pays  so 
well,  why  should  I grumble?” 

“ Since  it  has  to  be  done,  my  dear  George  rose  slow- 
ly and  unwillingly — “ and  since  it  can  not  be  done  at 
home  I suppose  it  may  as  well  be  done  at  Boston  as  any- 
where else.  As  for  paying,  ask  Mavis  himself  how  well  it 


102 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


pays.  Bread  and  meat,  and  drink  and  lodging  and  clothes 
it  has  been  to  him  for  five  long  years.  ” 

Nettie  ran  away  to  pack  the  bag. 

44  Don’t  you  feel  like  it?”  asked  Mavis. 

44 1 never  feel  like  it  till  you  come,  damn  you!” 

44  Then  your  throat  begins  to  tickle  and  your  mind 
begins  to  run  on  whisky,  and  presently  you  begin  to  gasp 
and  your  throat  burns — ” 

44  Hush!  It  has  begun!” 

His  wife  came  back  carrying  the  bag. 

44  Good-bye,  George  dear.  Take  care  of  yourself.  I 
shall  expect  you  home  in  three  days.  We  have  got  plenty 
of  money.  Good-night,  Mr.  Mavis.” 

44  My  dear  ” — George  folded  her  in  his  arms — 44  let  us 
think  no  more  of  getting  rich.  Let  us  continue  in  obscu- 
rity. So  best.  So  we  must.” 


CHAPTER  X. 

MY  OWN  HOME. 

Old  men  who  have  risen,  young  men  who  are  rising,  are 
subject  from  time  to  time  to  a remarkable  yearning  after 
a sight  of  the  place  they  knew  and  haunted  in  the  days  of 
small  things.  They  must  go  back  and  look  at  the  place; 
they  must  revive  the  old  associations.  We  have  had,  for 
instance,  recorded  in  the  public  journal  how  one  who  rose 
to  be  a languishing  nobleman  from  a butcher’s  boy  could 
not  refrain  from  visiting  the  scenes  of  his  childhood, 
though  the  visit  was  likely  to  bring  trouble  upon  him. 

Professor  John  Carew,  one  of  the  young  men  who  are 
rising  rapidly,  was  naturally  impelled  from  time  to  time  to 
arise  and  visit  the  scenes  of  his  childhood.  There  was  no 
especial  reason;  the  place  was  in  no  way  romantic;  and 
there  were  no  remarkable  incidents  peculiar  to  his  own 
childhood.  Yet,  once  a year — or  perhaps  once  in  two 
years — he  would  get  into  an  omnibus  and  go  off  to  walk 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


103 


once  more  about  the  old  familiar  streets  and  roads  and 
squares.  There  was  the  church  dedicated  to  St.  Stephen, 
in  which  his  father  was  vicar;  he  was  never  particularly 
fond  of  the  church,  and  he  had  no  great  liking  for  church 
service;  it  is  not  a beautiful  church,  being  a neat  erection 
of  red  brick,  one  of  these  district  churches  which  have 
been  raised  within  the  last  twenty  years;  he  had  spent  many 
hours  of  tedium  in  that  church  while  his  father,  a good 
man  but  no  orator,  read  his  discourse.  Yet  he  always 
walked  down  the  road  in  which  the  church  stood  and  con- 
templated that  monument  with  interest.  The  vicarage, 
next  the  church,  was  the  place  where  he  was  born;  the 
garden,  that  in  which  he  had  been  wont  to  play;  the  road, 
that  in  which  his  feet  first  trod  their  hesitating  footsteps. 
He  was  not  a sentimental  man,  but  he  had  this  sentimental 
touch.  Perhaps  the  thing  which  most  attracted  him  was 
not  so  much  the  memory  of  the  past  as  the  contrast  be- 
tween his  first  beginning  and  the  splendid  future  which 
now  seemed  stretching  out  before  him.  This  Church  of 
St.  Stephen's  stands  in  Daffodil  Eoad.  John  Carew  is  as 
much  a native  of  the  quarter  as  Nettie  or  Victoria  Patager. 
Therefore,  when  on  this  particular  afternoon  in  June  he 
walked  about  the  place  everything  was  familiar  to  him. 
He  remembered  a time  when  the  whole  world  to  him  con- 
sisted entirely  of  roads  planted  with  trees,  and  behind  the 
trees  little  houses  all  alike,  or  nearly  alike.  Later  on,  the 
whole  world  consisted  of  men  and  women  living  in  a con- 
dition of  chronic  tightness,  the  matrons  managing  with 
the  greatest  craft  and  skill,  the  boys  and  girls  always  long- 
ing for  what  they  could  not  get.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
world  so  stimulating  to  some  minds  as  the  present  con- 
templation in  the  past  memory  of  domestic  tightness.  On 
the  other  hand,  to  some  minds  nothing  may  prove  more 
narrowing  and  enslaving.  John  Carew  remembered  how 
he  had  very  early  resolved  upon  getting  clear,  somehow, 
of  domestic  tightness.  It  made  him  angry  to  see  his 


104 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


mother  at  work,  every  day  and  all  day  long,  sewing,  darn- 
ing, contriving,  arranging;  she  had  no  independent  life  at 
all;  no  woman  with  her  income  and  her  family  ever  does. 
Well,  he  would  fight  his  way  out  of  it — somehow. 

The  place  was  so  familiar  to  him.  He  recalled  the  prim 
and  precise  clerk  who  lived  in  one  house;  the  clerk,  with 
all  the  importance  of  the  senior  partner,  who  lived  in  an- 
other^ the  clerk  to  a financier,  who  talked  of  millions;  he 
remembered  them  all,  so  regular  at  church,  so  narrow  in 
their  ideas,  so  proper  in  their  conduct,  so  solemnly  com- 
monplace in  their  language,  so  limited  in  their  ambitions. 
He  remembered,  besides,  the  sons  of  these  worthy  citizens; 
why,  from  the  earliest  he  had  felt  that  he  belonged  to 
higher  levels  than  they  could  possibly  reach,  though  at  the 
outset  they  were  all  poor  together.  For  such  a boy  as 
John  Carew  the  ladders  of  ambition  have  been  planted. 
Once  the  lad  has  his  foot  on  the  first  rung  everything  may 
be  achieved.  This  boy  got  his  foot  on  a ladder  by  means 
of  a school  scholarship.  Everybody  knows  the  rest.  There 
is  no  other  country  in  the  world — none — where  a boy 
whose  parents  can  not  help  him  may  be  thus  enabled  to 
rise  step  by  step  till  the  greatest  honors,  the  highest  rank, 
the  noblest  achievements  are  open  to  him.  John  Carew 
loitered  along  the  road,  thinking  of  these  early  days,  when 
every  step  was  hidden  in  mist  and  cloud,  though  the  mists 
and  clouds  showed  golden  in  the  sunshine.  The  young 
man  newly  admitted  into  the  ranks  of  the  successful,  the 
parvenu  among  scholars,  looks  back  upon  such  a time  with 
self-congratulation.  When  he  is  older  he  will  think  of  it 
with  wonder  that  he  should  have  been  taken  from  the  herd 
and  all  the  rest  be  left  behind,  and  with  sorrow  that  the 
joy  of  hope — that  the  first  budding  of  the  timid,  half-ex- 
pressed  hope — is  so  far  behind.  Presently  John  Carew 
began  to  think  of  a family  he  had  once  known.  Thus  we 
first  think  of  the  specie_s  and  then  select  the  individual;  we 
first  gaze  upon  the  crowd  and  then  pick  out  one  to  repre- 


THE  DEMOHIAC. 


105 


sent  the  whole.  The  head  of  this  family,  he  remembered, 
was  a clerk  and  a person  of  great  dignity;  he  was  one  of 
the  church-wardens  of  St.  Stephen’s.  His  household  con- 
sisted of  his  wife,  two  sons  and  two  daughters.  The  boys, 
he  was  quite  certain,  were  by  this  time  in  the  city;  they 
were  urbi  ascripti ; long  since  they  had  found  their  desks; 
they  were  now,  perhaps,  making  their  hundred  pounds  a 
year  or  even  more.  "Where  were  the  girls?  The  elder 
always  interested  him,  because  she  had  large  dark-blue 
eyes  which  looked  full  of  deep,  deep  thoughts,  too  wise  for 
speech,  too  spiritual  for  common  man.  Nay,  there  was 
even  a time  when — but  happily  that  business  went  but 
very  little  way.  No  doubt  a mind  of  commonplace  with 
eyes  of  romance.  How  should  a girl  belonging  to  such  a 
house  be  anything  but  commonplace?  What  had  become 
of  Nettie?  There  was  a younger  sister — Victoria.  But  he 
remembered  less  of  her.  She  was  four  years  younger  than 
Nettie.  Yes,  Nettie  must  be  twenty-four  — about  two 
years  younger  than  himself.  Very  likely  she  was  married; 
the  people  in  these  parts  marry  early.  Perhaps  she  had 
gone  away — yet  those  people  do  not  care  about  going 
away;  they  are  attached  to  their  old  quarters. 

He  lifted  his  head  at  this  moment  and  looked  around. 
Heavens!  The  oddest,  most  remarkable  coincidence  ever 
heard  of!  For  at  the  window,  which  served  as  a frame  for 
a portrait,  he  saw  the  very  girl  of  whom  he  was  thinking. 
Five  years,  at  least,  since  last  he  saw  her;  he  knew  her  at 
once;  it  was  Nettie  Patager.  She  was  bending  over  some- 
thing. In  fact,  the  cradle.  He  stopped;  he  opened  the 
gate  and  stepped  into  the  little  front  garden.  She  turned 
her  head.  Yes,  Nettie.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
deep-blue  eyes.  She  saw  him  and  cried  out  with  wonder, 
and  ran  to  open  the  door. 

66  Why,  it’s  never  John  Carew,  is  it?  Oh!  do  come  in, 
John  Carew!  We  haven’t  seen  you  for  ever  so  long — not 
since  your  father  went  away.  Do  come  in.” 


106 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


She  gave  him  both  her  hands,  and  would  willingly  have 
kissed  him  had  it  been  proper. 

“Nettie!  of  course  I knew  you  at  once.  And  is  this 
your  home — and  your  own — " He  looked  at  the  cradle 
and  its  occupant. 

“It  is  my  own  house — all  my  own.  Isn't  it  a nice 
house?  And  my  own  baby.  I've  got  another  little  boy 
two  years  old..  But  he's  gone  out  with  the  girl  in  his  per- 
ambulator, bless  him!" 

“ And  what  is  your  new  married  name,  Nettie?" 

“ My  new  name?  I've  had  it  for  more  than  three  years. 
It's  Humphrey — I think  it  is  a very  pretty  name.  George 
Humphrey  is  my  husband's  name." 

“ 1 do  not  seem  to  remember  the  name,  in  the  old  time. 
Perhaps  he  belonged  to  one  of  the  chapel  folk." 

“ Oh,  no!  always  a churchman.  George  is  a new-comer. 
He  doesn't  belong  to  the  place.  He  only  came  to  live  here 
about  three  years  and  a half  ago.  My  husband  is  an 
Australian.  He  comes  from  near  Melbourne.  Fancy  my 
marrying  an  Australian!  Who  ever  would  have  thought 
of  such  a thing?" 

“ Why  not,  Nettie — if  he  is  the  man  of  your  choice?" 

“ Of  course  he  is  the  man  of  my  choice.  He  isn't  in 
the  city,  you  know,  which  w^ent  against  him  at  first,  be- 
cause we  are  all  city  people  here  and  we  like  the  old  ways 
best.  Father  thinks  there  is  no  safety  out  of  the  city.  A 
young  man  should  get  a berth  in  a good  old  house,  he 
says,  and  stick  to  it.  That's  his  idea.  Well,  there  is 
truth  in  it  too.  What  father  says  is  always  sensible.  So 
when  George  came  to  the  house  first  he  didn't  get  much 
encouragement  and  was  rather  looked  down  upon — be- 
cause he  is  only  a journalist,  you  see — and  a city  clerk  in 
a good  house  naturally  looks  down  upon  a journalist." 

“ Naturally."  John  Carew  sat  down  and  listened.  His 
old  friend  talked  along  just  as  she  had  always  done,  quick- 
ly as  all  London  girls  talk,  lifting  her  eyes,  those  wonder- 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


107 


ful  great  eyes,  deep  and  fall,  charged  with  mystery  and 
unknown  depths  of  thought.  44  Quite  naturally,  Nettie.” 
“Yes.  But  George  bore  up.  He  had  the  temper  of 
an  angel — my  husband.  Nobody  ever  saw  him  put  out. 
When  my  brother  Horatio — you  remember  Horatio — was 
rude  to  him  and  chaffed  him  about  his  flimsy  and  his 
penny-a-line,  he  only  laughed.  By  degrees  father  came 
round  a bit.  He  could  see  that  George  was  a steady  young 
man  and  went  off  to  business  at  regular  hours.  Then  it 
was  found  out  that  he  was  making  a good  income — more 
than  three  pounds  a week,  and  somebody  told  father  that 
there  are  journalists  who  make  as  much  as  eight  or  ten 
pounds  a week.  So  father  made  no  further  opposition. 
Besides,  it  was  too  late,  because  1 was  bent  upon  it  by 
then,  whatever  anybody  said,  and  we  were  married  at  a 
registry  to  show  our  determination.  Of  course,  we  went 
to  church  afterward.  ” 

44  That  was  a happy  time,  was  it  not?” 

44  Oh!”  she  clasped  her  hands;  44  but  it's  been  a happier 
time  since  then.”  She  sighed.  44 1 often  think  I'm  not 
sufficiently  grateful.  None  of  us  are.  Yet  I've  got  the 
best  husband  in  the  world  and  two  of  the  loveliest  children 
you  ever  saw,  and  a nice  house  and  a good  income  to 
spend.  What  more  can  a woman  desire?” 

44 1 think  there  is  not  much  more  to  be  got.  Love, 
plenty,  youth,  health,  and  strong  children.  Do  you  know, 
Nettie,  you  have  got  everything  that  the  world  can  give 
you?” 

She  laughed  contentedly.  Fancy  one  woman — and  that 
woman  under  five-and- twenty — able  to  absorb  all  that  the 
world  has  to  give.  Bightly  is  woman  called  receptive. 

44 1 ought  to  be  happy — 1 am  happy,  John.” 

44  And  1 am  very  glad  indeed  to  see  my  old  friend  in 
such  good  case.” 

44  But  what  are  you  doing,  John?” 

44 1 have  left  Cambridge;  1 am  a professor.” 


108 


THE  DEM  OKI  AC. 


44  Oh!  a teacher  in  a school.  Well,  John,  I am  glad 
you  are  not  too  grand  for  us.” 

He  laughed,  too.  It  is  well  to  have  one’s  position  clear- 
ly understood. 

Then  she  went  back  to  her  husband  again,  as  a woman 
selfish  in  her  own  happiness  naturally  does.  Nettie  could 
talk  about  George  and  the  children  all  day  long  and  dream 
about  them  all  the  night  and  never  feel  the  least  desire  to 
change  the  subject. 

“ George  is  not  a common  journalist,”  she  continued. 
6 4 You  must  not  think  that.  Once  there  was  a journalist 
who  took  a house  next  door  to  us.  I believe  that  it  was 
his  example  which  set  father  against  the  profession.  The 
beer  that  used  to  go  into  that  house!  At  all  hours,  too! 
Oh!  he  was  a disgrace  to  the  road.  Everybody  was  glad 
when  he  went  away,  though  sorry  for  the  poor  wife  to  have 
her  furniture  seized  for  the  rent.  My  husband  is  not  like 
that  man  at  all.  To  begin  with,  he  has  been  a most  won- 
derful traveler;  he  has  been  all  round  the  world — think  of 
that!  And  he  knows  French  and  German;  he  can  quote 
Latin  and  Greek;  and  look  at  all  his  books!”' 

John  Oarew  got  up  instantly  and  began  to  examine  the 
books.  A very  good  collection,  so  far  as  five  or  six  hun- 
dred volumes  go.  This  man  knew  what  reading  meant. 

64  And  you  may  start  any  subject  you  please,  and  you 
will  find  that  he  knows  all  about  it — ” John  began  to 
think  that  the  man  must  be  of  the  self-made,  self-assert- 
ive, ostentatiously  superior  kind.  44  Sometimes  the^qurate 
looks  in  of  an  evening,  and  they  argue.  The  curate  always 
pretends  to  have  got  the  best  of  it — but  1 know.  It’s  my 
husband’s  kindness — and  as  for  writing,  why  he  can  write 
anything.  He  writes  the  leaders  every  week  in  the  Clerk- 
land  4 Gazette  ’;  he  sends  descriptive  articles  to  the  maga- 
zines and  they  are  taken;  he  can  write  poetry;  he  can 
write  tales,  too.  Once  he  wrote  a most  beautiful  story,  all 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


109 


about  a man  who  was  in  love  with  a girl,  but  he  found  out 

that  he  had  an  hereditary  disease  and  he  had  to  behave 
cruel  to  her  so  as  to  break  it  off  without  her  being  blamed. 
And  so  he  went  away—” 

44  And  died  of  a broken  heart?” 

“ No;  in  the  story  he  went  to  live  among  poor  people 
and  married  a poor  girl  and  she  made  him  happy  in  spite 
of  the  hereditary  disease.  When  he  is  hard  up  for  a sub- 
ject he  opens  his  note-book  and  writes  out  an  account  of 
some  island  he  has  been  to  and  sends  that  to 'a  journal. 
As  for  money,  we  are  getting  on  famously — we  have  every- 
thing we  want — and  we  are  saving,  I can  tell  you.  There’s 
baby  waking  up.” 

In  fact  the  youthful  Humphrey  gave  the  usual  evidence 
of  a return  to  consciousness.  His  mother  took  him  up, 
after  the  manner  of  the  fond  mother,  and  administered 
the  bottle. 

“ It’s  half  past  twelve,”  Nettie  went  on.  44  This  is  one 
of  the  days  when  my  husband  comes  home  to  dinner.  He 
will  be  home  by  one.  Will  you  stay  and  have  some  dinner 
with  us?  Do,  John,  for  old  times’  sake.  There’s  plenty 
and  to  spare.  If  there  is  one  thing  that  we  are  extrava- 
gant in,  it’s  housekeeping.  Mother  holds  up  her  hands 
only  to  think  of  my  butcher’s  bill.  But  then,  I tell  her, 
she  hasn’t  got  a man  to  provide  a dinner  for.  What  does 
she  want  with  a big  butcher’s  bill?  When  we  girls  were 
at  home  it  was  a bloater  one  day  and  an  egg  one  day  or  a 
slice  of  bacon  or  a tin  of  Australian  tongue  cold,  and  good 
enough,  too.  And  even  father  is  content  with  a shilling 
for  his  dinner;  says  that  to  spend  more  than  a shilling  on 
a meal  is  a sinful  waste  and  gluttony  in  one  who  is  a clerk. 
But  George  is  that  kind  of  man  who  is  not  happy  if  there 
is  not  plenty.  It’s  the  Australian  in  him,  I suppose.  So 
it’s  only  the  prime  joints  that  content  him,  and,  I will  say 
this  for  him,  he  has  as  noble  an  appetite  as  ever  blessed  a 
man.  Then  you  will  stay,  John?  It’s  a lovely  steat — a 


110 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


picture — it  is  indeed.  I am  going  to  see  about  it  at  once. 
That’s  kind,  now;  you  will  stay.” 

She  left  the  baby  under  his  eye  and  ran  away.  Present- 
ly he  began  to  discover  the  fragrance  of  this  unrivaled 
steak,  as  it  hissed  under  the  influence  of  the  clear  fire  in 
the  kitchen  below.  Nettie  was  not  too  proud,  he  observed, 
to  assist  in  cooking  her  husband’s  dinner.  By  this  time 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  concerning  this  unique  specimen 
of  the  journalist — the  complete  and  perfect  journalist. 
He  was  young,  pasty-faced,  under-sized,  conceited,  self-as- 
sertive, and  under-bred.  He  thought  of  the  poor  girl’s 
enthusiasm  with  a kind  of  pity.  How  good  for  a woman 
thus  to  nourish  illusions  concerning  her  husband!  Since 
one  can  not  get  rid  of  a husband,  better  never  to  know  or 
to  suspect  the  truth  about  him.  John  knew  the  sheet — 
the  Olerkland  44  Gazette.”  You  see  it  existed  in  the  time 
of  his  residence.  He  remembered  the  character  of  its  lead- 
ing articles  and  drew  an  inference — hasty  and  without 
sufficient  foundation — as  to  the  kind  of  man  who  would 
write  those  articles.  Pasty-faced,  under-sized,  under-bred, 
self-taught  and  conceited— and  Nettie  believed  that  he  was 
a great  scholar  and  a great  genius! 

The  clock  on  the  mantel-shelf  struck  one.  Precisely  to 
the  moment  John  heard  a manly  footstep  outside.  Then 
a rushing  footstep — it  was  the  wife  flying  upstairs  to  greet 
her  husband. 

66  George,  we  have  a visitor — an  old  friend.  Come  in—” 

The  door  opened,  and  the  perfect  journalist  appeared. 
John  Carew  caught  his  breath  with  astonishment.  Pasty- 
faced?  Under-sized  ? 

Why,  the  man  was  a giant;  tall,  broad,  rosy-cheeked, 
handsome  as  Phoebus  Apollo.  Under-bred? 

He  advanced  with  the  best  air  in  the  world.  44  A very 
old  friend  of  my  wife  is  welcome,”  he  said,  holding  out  an 
immense  paw. 

44  This  is  John  Carew,  my  dear,”  said  his  wife.  44  He 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


Ill 


was  the  son  of  our  last  vicar — father  was  church- warden. 
We  often  used  to  go  to  the  vicarage  for  tea  in  the  old 
days.  ” 

44  Well,  Mr.  Carew,”  said  the  husband,  46 1 am  very 
glad  to  see  you.” 

44  The  vicar  went  away  to  another  church.” 

44  My  father  took  a country  living,”  John  explained. 
He  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  this  man,  so  big,  so  hand- 
some, so  totally  unexpected.  Besides,  he  had  an  uneasy 
feeling  that- — 

44  And  so  we  have  never  met  until  to-day,  when  John 
saw  me  by  accident.” 

44 1 have  been  at  school  and  at  Cambridge,”  John  ex- 
plained again.  44  When  one  gets  among  other  sets  and  in 
other  places — ” The  uneasiness  grew  stronger. 

44  Yes,”  said  the  journalist.  44  What  was  your  col- 
lege?” 

44  Christ's,”  He  was  now  quite  sure  that  he  had  seen 
that  face  before  somewhere. 

44  Ah!”  He  changed  color  slightly.  44  What  year  did 
you  go  up?” 

44  In  *85.”  When  John  went  away  he  thought  it  was 
rather  odd  that  an  Australian  journalist  should  ask  these 
questions.  When  one  young  man  puts  them  to  another  it 
generally  argues  some  acquaintance  with  the  university. 

44  Eighty-five— oh!  Yes.  Eighty-five?  That  was 
after — ” he  checked  himself. 

Then  they  went  down  to  dinner.  John  observed — First, 
that  husband  and  wife  drank  water;  that  is  not  so  unusual 
in  these  days.  He  next  remarked  that  there  was  an  ob- 
servance of  dinner  forms,  simple  enough,  but  not  custom- 
ary in  households  of  Arcadia  or  Olerkland,  where  there  is 
only  one  real  dinner  a week — the  napkins,  the  table-linen, 
the  serving  of  the  dinner  by  the  single  maid,  showed  an 
appreciation  of  dinner  as  a ceremony  or  act  of  worship. 

44  George  is  particular  about  his  dinner/*  said  his  wife. 


112 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


“ At  home  we  cook  it  pretty  much  anyhow,  except  on 
Sundays.  George  likes  it  properly  laid  and  served.  Well, 
1 must  say  that  he  has  made  me  like  it  so,  though  another 
would  never  give  in  to  it.” 

George  volunteered  no  explanation  of  this  singular  taste. 
By  this  time,  however,  John  had  discovered  that  the  man 
was  a gentleman.  Clearly,  a gentleman.  At  every  point 
of  him,  a gentleman.  How  came  such  a man  as  this  so 
low  do^vn  in  the  world,  assistant  editor  to  a little  suburban 
local  paper,  living  by  chance  contributions  here  and  there? 

44 1 hear  that  you  are  an  Australian,  Mr.  Humphrey?” 
he  said,  presently. 

44  An  Australian,”  replied  his  host,  shortly  and  in  a 
voice  which  encouraged  no  more  inquiry  in  that  direction. 

Then  they  began  to  talk  about  the  topics  of  the  day. 
This  Australian  talked  well;  there  was  not  the  least  self- 
assertion;  he  was  not  conceited;  he  was  not  half  informed; 
and  he  did  not  talk  the  day  before  yesterday's  leading 
article  of  his  favorite  paper.  Now  if  one  listens  in  a sub- 
urban railway  carriage,  where  the  people  commonly  know 
each  other,  you  will  observe,  provided  you  are  properly 
posted  in  the  literature  of  the  Ephemerides,  that  the  opin- 
ions exchanged,  offered,  or  confirmed  on  the  subjects  of 
the  day  are  those  of  the  day  before  yesterday's  44  Stand- 
ard,” or  the  day  before  yesterday's  44  Daily  News;''  ac- 
cording to  the  politics  of  the  speaker.  This  man,  because 
he  was  an  Australian,  probably  talked  as  one  who  has 
taken  the  trouble  to  get  at  the  facts  from  his  newspaper 
and  to  draw  the  deductions  for  himself. 

When  the  early  dinner  was  finished,  John  Carew  felt 
that  he  had  met  an  intellectual  equal,  and  in  knowledge  of 
men  and  manners,  a superior.  But  the  college  don  rarely 
has  an  opportunity  of  acquiring  much  knowledge  of  men 
and  manners. 

44  Will  you  come  to  see  me?''  he  said.  44 1 live  in  cham- 
bers. If  you  would  dine  with  me  at  the  Savile — ” 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


113 


“ Thank  you  very  much,”  Mr.  Humphrey  replied, 
“ but  1 do  not  belong  to  club  life  or  to  West  End  life  at 
all.” 

“ That  is  no  reason — ” 

“ Pardon  me.  You  are  very  kind,  but  I live  here  ” — 
he  spoke  decisively,  44  You  who  know  this  part  of  the 
world — 99 

44  Yes,  yes,”  for  the  speaker  left  the  sentence  unfin- 
ished. 44 1 know — well — but  if  Nettie — forgive  me,  we 
always  used  to  call  each  other  and  think  of  each  other  by 
our  Christian  names — and  you  would  come  to  my  cham- 
bers alone  some  evening — if  it  is  only  to  carry  on  this 
talk — ” 

44  Do,  George,”  said  his  wife.  44  We  go  out  so  seldom 
— never  anywhere,  except  to  mother's — I should  so  like  to 
go,  and  John  is  such  an  old  friend.” 

44  Very  well,  my  dear,  if  you  like.  Mr.  Carew,  one  con- 
dition, please;  we  will  gladly  accept  your  invitation  if  you 
will  allow  us  to  find  you  alone.” 

John  Carew  went  home  thoughtful.  To  begin  with, 
hererwas  a very  remarkable  man;  in  any  circle  he  would 
be  remarkable;  he  was  nothing  but  a small  suburban  jour- 
nalist. Now,  such  a man  generally  begins  with  being  a 
reporter;  he  writes  short-hand;  he  attends  local  functions, 
inquests — he  is  great  in  inquests;  he  portrays  the  local 
news;  he  is  acquainted  with  all  the  local  tradesmen;  he  is 
influential  in  getting  advertisements;  but  he  is  not  a gen- 
tleman, a traveler,  and  a scholar.” 

Had  he  done  something  to  get  so  low  down? 

On  the  other  hand,  why  should  he  do  anything?  Sup- 
pose, which  was  probable,  that  he  had  come  over  here  to 
seek  his  fortune,  and  had  been  compelled  by  poverty  to 
take  what  he  could  get.  He  might  very  well  not  be  eager 
to  be  introduced  to  the  literary  circle  of  the  Savile  Club  as 
the  assistant  editor  of  a suburban  paper.  A man  must  get 
up  the  ladder  somehow  or  other;  there  is  no  dishonor  in 


114 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


any  honest  way;  but  some  of  the  lower  rungs  are  rather 
better  to  look  at  than  others. 

Nettie  had  done  very  well.  Her  large  and  lustrous  eyes 
— he  remembered  them  when  she  was  only  a little  girl — 
had  brought  to  her  feet  that  prince  of  whom  every  girl 
dreams  but  few  girls  get — a man  strong,  capable,  well 
taught,  well  bred,  affectionate  and  constant.  Happy 
Nettie!  Thrice  happy  Nettie! 

But,  after  all,  how  came  such  a man  in  such  a place? 

He  went  to  bed  that  night  haunted  with  a sense  of  in- 
congruity. What  had  such  a man  to  do  in  such  a place?,. 
What  brought  him  there?  And  he  remembered  the  man^s 
face — very  odd  thing;  he  remembered  the  face  quite  well 
— that  is,  part  of  the  face,  not  all  of  it — quite  well  and 
clearly  he  remembered  it.  Where  had  he  seen  it?  It  was 
one  of  these  horrid  half  memories  which  disturb  and  irri- 
tate one,  because  the  other  half  will  not  come  back.  He 
tried,  but  in  vain,  to  remember  the  voice,  the  shoulders, 
the  big  burly  form,  the  great  hands,  the  whole  appearance 
of  the  man.  He  could  not.  It  was  only  the  face  that 
seemed  to  haunt  him. 

A trick  of  the  brain.  How  should  he  ever  forget  this 
splendid  man  if  he  had  ever  met  him?  It  was  impossible. 
One  might  as  well  try  to  forget  some  hero  of  romance. 
One  might  as  well  forget  Don  Quixote,  Colonel  Newcombe, 
She.  A trick  of  the  brain.  Nothing  but  a trick  of  the 
brain. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  RECLUSE. 

The  visit  to  John  Carew’s  rooms  was  duly  made  and  the 
condition  observed.  No  one  except  the  tenant  of  the 
rooms  was  there  to  meet  this  suburban  journalist  of  retir- 
ing disposition. 

Everybody  knows  the  kind  of  nest— luxurious,  well 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


115 


furnished,  aesthetic  to  a certain  point,  but  with  a certain- 
kind  of  severity — which  the  young  Cambridge  don  makes 
for  himself  and  transports  with  him  when  he  leaves  his 
college.  The  rooms  were  a flat — young  men  who  are  pro- 
fessors no  longer  live  in  airy  chambers — there  were  two 
sitting-rooms,  both  of  them  filled  with  books,  but  one  have 
ing  its  books  only  half-way  up  the  wall  so  as  to  leave  space 
for  engravings  hanging  above.  Great  feeling  was  displayed 
in  the  selection  of  chairs;  in  such  rooms  there  should  be 
no  two  exactly  alike;  as  there  are  diversities  in  length  of 
limb,  so  should  there  be  diversities  in  depth  and  width  and 
height  of  the  chairs.  In  a more  advanced  state  of  civiliza- 
tion these  points  will  be  observed  even  in  dining-rooms. 
There  was  no  foolishness  of  fashion;  smaller  people  may 
put  up  peacock’s  feathers  one  year  and  blue  china  the 
next;  a young  professor  must  rise  to  the  level  that  is  above 
fashion  and  remain  there.  There  were  also  a good  many 
“ nice  things,”  chiefly  gathered  round  about  the  shores  of 
the  Mediterranean  or  the  sandy  banks  of  the  Tipper  Nile. 

The  professor  observed  when  George  Humphrey  came 
into  the  room  that  he  looked  about  him  with  the  eyes  of 
one  who  knows  such  rooms  and,  while  Nettie  cried  out  for 
the  beauty  of  the  furniture,  he  began  to  go  round  among 
the  book-shelves  reading  the  titles  and  taking  out  the  vol- 
umes to  look  at  the  edition  or  the  binding,  or  to  refresh  his 
eyes  with  the  mere  sight  of  the  text,  like  one  to  the  man- 
ner born.  John  Carew  was  not  only  curious  about  this  re- 
markable journalist,  but  he  was  also  by  nature  observant. 

“This  fellow,”  he  thought,  “is  not  self-made,  what- 
ever else  he  is.  That  is  abundantly  clear;  no  self-made 
man  could  handle  a book  like  that.  ” 

An  observation  which  shows  that  this  young  professor 
may  yet  become  a novelist.  Because,  you  see,  the  self- 
made  man  reveals  his  training,  to  those  who  have  eyes  to 
see,  by  his  manner  of  handling  the  tools  of  training. 
What  is  the  difference?  It  is  hard  to  say.  The  man  who 


116 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


has  educated  himself  knows  the  value  of  books  as  much  as 
the  man  who  44  makes  " himself  knows  the  value  of  money; 
he  respects  them  and  loves  them  as  much  as  one  who  has 
been  schooled  and  taught  from  childhood  up.  Yet  he  can 
not  handle  them  with  the  same  appearance  of  affection. 
It  is  their  contents  he  values.  He  is  as  one  who  loves  hu- 
manity for  its  virtues  and  its  possibilities;  the  scholar  is  as 
one  who  loves  humanity  for  the  same  reason,  but  delights 
to  see  his  humans  clothed  daintily  and  behaving  with 
grace.  Now,  this  Australian  journalist  showed  the 
scholar's  handling. 

66  There,"  George  cried,  taking  down  a volume.  44  This 
is  what  we  may  call  binding.  This  is  how  a book  should 
be  appareled.  There  is  ten  times  the  pleasure  of  reading 
a book  with  such  a binding  as  this. " 

64  Yes,  I wish  I had  a thousand  books  bound  by  the 
same  man.  You  understand  binding.  " 

46 1 used  to  think  1 did  when  I could  prowl  about  a good 
library. " 

John  Carew  refrained  from  asking  him  when  and  where 
that  was. 

44  In  our  quarter,"  said  George,  44  there  is  not  such  a 
thing  as  a bookseller;  nobody  buys  books;  as  for  bookbind- 
ing, no  one  understands  that  there  is  such  a thing  as  an 
art  of  binding  books." 

They  talked  of  other  things.  This  talk  lasted  till  ten  at 
night.  John  Carew  discovered  that  of  quite  recent  books 
his  new  acquaintance  knew  nothing  at  all,  but  of  older 
books,  say  six  years  old  at  least,  he  knew  and  had  read 
everything  that  men  do  read  and  talk  about — the  books  of 
Darwin,  of  Herbert  Spencer,  the  novels  down  to  the  year 
1885  or  thereabout,  the  poets  down  to  that  year — there  has 
not  been  much  poetry  since.  It  was  as  if  for  some  reason 
or  other  he  had  ceased  to  read  about  that  year. 

44 1 have  read  nothing  of  late,"  said  George,  when  he 
had  betrayed  complete  ignorance  of  what  had  recently 


THE  DEMOHIAC.  117 

been  written  and  said  upon  a certain  subject.  44  It  is  now 
nearly  six  years  since  I quite  left  off  reading.” 

44  Eeally?  Quite  left  off  reading?” 

66 1 was  traveling  about  the  world,  sailing  among  the 
islands  of  the  Pacific,  and  so  was  out  of  the  way  of  books. 
When  the  wandering  years  were  over  and  there  was  no 
more  money  left,  one  had  to  get  work  somehow — any 
work  that  offered.  The  work  that  came  to  me  was— what 
you  know.  There  are  no  libraries,  no  new  books,  no 
magazines,  and  nobody  to  talk  about  books  in  my  quarter.” 
4 4 1 should  have  thought  that  you  would  have  returned 
with  an  insatiable  thirst  for  books.” 

64  No;  when  you  have  to  dodge  around  for  the  day’s 
dinner  there  is  not  much  thirst  left  for  anything  else.  Be- 
sides, one  easily  forgets  those  tastes;  one  grows  lethargic. 
In  your  company  some  of  the  old  enthusiasms  may  flash 
up.  Mostly,  however,  they  are  dead  and  gone.” 

He  spoke  with  a touch  of  sadness  in  his  voice. 

44  They  can  easily  be  revived,”  said  the  professor. 
44  Surely,  surely  a year  or  two  of  uncongenial  work  can  not 
have  destroyed  the  fine  taste,  the  scholarly  instincts,  the 
scholarship  itself.  Why,  you  betray  these  things  in  every 
word  you  utter.” 

44  Only  the  smoldering  fires — they  are  nearly  destroyed.” 
44  Then  leave  these  lower  levels  and  let  these  fires  re- 
vive.” 

Nettie  heard  the  talk  with  bewilderment.  She  under- 
stood in  a vague  way  that  John  Carew,  of  whose  actual 
position  she  had  but  vague  ideas,  was  urging  her  husband 
to  leave  low  levels — low  levels!— and  go  up  higher. 

44  I must  stay  where  I am,”  said  George.  44  It  is  the 
compulsion  of  necessity— force  majeure — the  hand  of  fate.” 
44  No,  no!  there  can  be  no  such  compulsion,”  the  pro- 
fessor persisted.  44  A man  like  you  can  command  better 
work.  It  is  a shame  that  you  should  be  giving  yourself 
away  to  a trumpery  local  rag.  You  ought  to  be  on  the 


118 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


staff  of  a great  paper.  A man  with  so  much  knowledge  of 
men  and  manners,  books  and  history,  would  be  invaluable. 
You  ought  to  be  making  your  thousand  a year  at  least. ” 

“ Oh,  George!”  said  his  wife.  “ A thousand  a year!” 
“ You  can  not  sit  down  contented  with  your  present 
work.” 

“ I don’t  know,”  George  replied.  “ Perhaps  1 can  do 
no  better.  Being  where  I am  and  making  enough  for 
actual  wants,  why  should  1 worry?” 

“Oh!  But  to  stick  down  there — ” 

“ It  seems  rather  cowardly,  doesn’t  it?  But  1 don’t 
know.  You  see,  in  our  fortunate  quarter  a certain  happi- 
ness not  of  a very  high  standard  reigns  in  all  hearts.  • If  I 
should  emerge  we  might  lose  this  happiness.” 

The  professor  laughed  scornfully. 

“ Shall  we  exchange  the  substance  for  the  shadow?” 
George  went  on.  “ In  the  higher  levels  there  is  no  con- 
tentment, but  every  man  fighting  for  more  and  the  stand- 
ard going  up  and  up,  until  nothing  less  than  the  best  of 
everything  satisfies  anybody.” 

“ You  are  not  serious.” 

“I  am  serious  in  this:  that  I mean  to  remain  where  I 
am.  As  for  getting  better  work,  that  may  come  subject 
to  the  conditions  of  remaining  where  I am.  You  don’t 
wish  to  leave  your  native  quarter,  Nettie?  We  will  stay 
where  we  are — alone,  and  contented  with  our  own  com- 
pany.” 

“ I would  rather  stay  where  we  are,”  said  Nettie. 
“ But  1 should  like  you  to  get  work  better  suited  to  your 
genius,  George.  And  I should  like  to  see  a little  more  of 
the  world  than  we  do.” 

The  professor  clearly  perceived  that  for  some  reason  or 
other  , this  man  intended  to  remain  in  obscurity.  I regret 
to  say  that  like  certain  members  of  Nettie’s  family  he  be- 
gan to  suspect  some  reason  of  the  baser  kind  for  this  de- 
sire. It  was  absurd  that  a man  still  under  thirty,  so  well 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


119 


educated,  so  well  read,  apparently  so  well  bred,  should  de- 
sire the  obscurity  of  such  a life.  Well,  for  Nettie’s  sake 
he  hoped  that  it  was  nothing  shameful  that  remained  to  be 
found  out. 

When  the  visitors  went  away  John  Carew  began  to  con- 
sider what,  if  anything,  could  be  done  for  this  man.  Those 
who  write  for  daily  papers  must  be  on  the  spot— in  the 
office — every  day;  they  must  see  and  consult  the  editor. 
But  there  are  certain  weekly  papers  where  this  is  not 
necessary.  Many  men  write  for  these  papers  from  the 
country.  He  knew  a certain  editor.  To  him  he  confided 
the  fact  that  he  had  found  that  rare  creature,  the  retreat- 
ing modest  genius  who  desires  nothing  but  to  hide  his  head 
away  from  the  haunts  of  man.  There  have  been  known 
such  cases.  The  editor,  interested,  undertook  to  consider 
anything  that  this  unknown  genius  should  send  him. 
Then  John  Carew  went  again  to  Daffodil  Road  and  had  an- 
other talk. 

44  Think,”  he  said.  44  No  one  asks  you  to  stir  from  this 
hermitage.  No  one  will  want  to  see  you — all  you  have  to 
do  is  to  furnish  an  article  in  the  style  suited  to  the  paper, 
on  a subject  that  may  interest  the  readers.  Will  you  try? 
It  is  certainly  a long  step  above  the  local  paper.” 

George  hesitated. 

46 1 have  ventured  to  interfere  with  your  affairs,”  said 
John,  64  for  the  sake  of  my  old  friendship  with  your  wife. 
That  is  my  only  excuse.  1 see  that  you  desire,  for  reasohs 
of  your  own,  to  remain  in  obscurity.  I do  not  ask  those 
reasons — only  for  your  wife’s  sake — ” 

44  You  are  very  good.  Yes,  thank  you,  I will  have  a 
shot  at  this  paper.  If  I succeed  I am  not  bound  or  tied 
down  by  any  times  or  hours.” 

44  None.  But  there  is  a good  deal  of  work  to  be  got  on 
such  a paper — review  work,  politics,  social  matters.  You 
might  succeed  in  getting  so  firm  a footing  in  the  paper 


120 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


that  the  editor  would  look  for  you  as  a regular  contribu- 
tor.” 

A week  later  George  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a paper 
by  himself  occupying  a place  of  honor  in  small  print  and 
in  the  middle.  In  the  course  of  the  next  two  months  he 
contributed  half  a dozen  papers.  Then,  owing  to  certain 
events  which  happened  unexpectedly,  this  profitable  and 
honorable  connection  was  broken  off  altogether,  and  now  I 
do  not  think  it  will  ever  be  resumed. 

The  two  men  saw  a great  deahof  each  other  during  this 
season.  They  became  as  intimate  as  is  possible  where  one 
man  keeps  an  obstinate  silence  about  his  own  people  and 
his  early  history.  One  resents  this  reticence  except,  per- 
haps, in  the  case  of  a man  whose  people  have  been  hanged, 
or  who  has  himself  spent  a term  of  years  at  Dartmoor. 
We  do  not  ask  for  confidence  exactly,  but  we  do  not  like 
concealment.  Such  men  may  make  plenty  of  acquaint- 
ances, but  of  friends,  few.  Besides,  why  hide  the  fact  of 
poor  relations?  They  are  a nuisance  to  the  man  himself, 
particularly  if  they  want  to  borrow  his  money  or  be  asked 
to  his  dinners,  but  they  are  not  a nuisance  to  his  friends. 
Not  at  all.  His  friends  rather  like  to  tell  how  the  man 
has  one  cousin  who  keeps  a lodging-house,  and  another 
who  is  matron  at  a school.  George  Humphrey  said  noth- 
ing more  about  either  himself  or  his  antecedents.  He  was 
an  Australian,  from  Melbourne,  so  his  wife  said;  he  had 
traveled  and  spent  all  his  money,  and  so  was  obliged  to  do 
what  work  he  could  get,  so  he  himself  had  confessed. 
WJiat  John  Carew  himself  perceived  in  addition  to  this  was 
that  he  was  a man  of  culture,  education,  and  good  breed- 
ing. In  accepting  his  journalistic  work,  in  marrying  Net- 
tie Patager,  he  had  come  down  in  the  world.  Had  he  done 
something?  Had  he  gone  under  because  he  must?  Per- 
haps. Poor  Nettie!  Best  not  to  inquire  further,  lest  ugly 
things  should  be  discovered  and  present  happiness  be  de- 
stroyed. 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


121 


In  this  way  May  passed  into  J une,  J une  into  J uly,  and 
the  two  months*  interval  of  virtue  and  temperance  drew 
toward  its  close. 

44  If  you  will  come  to-morrow  evening/*  said  the  pro- 
fessor one  night,  44 1 will  find  the  book  and  look  out  the 
passage  for  you.  I think  it  will  clear  up  the  point.** 

44  To-morrow  will  do  perfectly  well/*  said  George.  44 1 
will  turn  up  about  eight  o*clock.** 

44  My  dear/*  said  Nettie,  “pray  do  not  make  any  en- 
gagements after  to-morrow.  Remember  it  is  your  Boston 
week.** 

George  changed  color.  He  grew  red  and  then  pale. 

44 1 had  almost  forgotten/*  he  said.  44  Well,  for  to-mor- 
row evening,  at  least,  1 am  _ free.  The  day  after  I may 
have  to  go  away  on  business.** 

44  He  has  business  that  takes  him  to  Boston  once  every 
two  months.** 

44  Boston/*  asked  the  professor.  44 1 thought  that  Bos- 
ton was  extinct,  dead  and  gone.  I had  an  idea  that  it  died 
in  giving  birth  to  the  new  Boston.  There  can  be  but  one 
Boston.** 

44  Oh!**  said  George,  44  the  old  Boston  lives  still.  There 
is  a good  deal  of  business  in  a quiet  way  at  Boston.  Mine 
is  business  which,  as  it  happens,  no  one  can  manage  except 
myself.  I don*t  like  it — I find  it  a great  nuisance  going 
away  for  two  or  three  days.  It  is  an  interruption.  Still, 
it  brings  in  money.  And  we  can  not  afford  to  give  up 
regular  work,  can  we,  Nettie?** 

44 1 hate  it/*  said  his  wife.  44  It  takes  him  away  from 
me;  it  worries  him  beforehand;  I can  see  him  thinking 
about  it;  he  gets  fidgety  sometimes  days  before  the  time, 
and  sometimes  he  comes  back  looking  so  pale  and  shaky 
that  it  is  evident  how  hard  they  work  him.  I believe  he 
works  all  day  and  all  night.  ** 

, “All  night  sometimes/*  saicf  George,  with  a smile. 


122 


THE'  DEMONIAC. 


“ Can’t  you  give  it  up?”  said  the  professor.  44  Will 
not  the  new  work  take  its  place?” 

“ I can  not  possibly  give  it  up.  I am  under  no  positive 
engagement,  but  yet  I must  not  give  it  up.  It  is,  I con- 
fess, a great  trouble  and  interruption,  and  the  work — the 
work- — is  uncongenial,  and  in  many  ways  it  is  some- 
times— ” He  lost  command  of  himself  for  the  moment. 
44  It  is  intolerable,  but  it  can’t  be  given  up.” 

His  face  clouded  over.  Conversation  was  stopped.  The 
professor  said  good-night. 

64  George  dear,”  Nettie  twined  her  arms  round  his  arm, 
“you  were  angry  to-night  about  this  Boston  business. 
Why  do  you  let  it  worry  you?  Give  it  up,  dear — we  can 
make  plenty  of  money  without  it.  Oh!  I have  always 
hated  it  more  and  more,  and  now  I can’t  bear  to  see  you 
going  off  with  that  horrid  man,  looking  miserable  when 
you  start  and  coming  home  pale  and  shaken.  1 am  always 
thinking  about  it.  Can’t  you  give  it  up?” 

“ No,  dear,  I can  never  give  it  up.  Never — now.  I 
might  perhaps  if  I had  had  the  courage  five  years  ago.” 
He  dropped  his  voice.  46  But  now — never— my  dear.  Let 
us  make  the  best  of  it.” 

44  And  with  such  a man!  I hate  the  sight  of  Mr.  Mavis. 
He  looks  like  a worm  with  his  white,  smooth  face  and  his 
down-dropped  eyes.  A man  who  can  not  even  look  you 
in  the  face.  Give  it  up,  dear.  Think  of  what  John 
Carew  keeps  on  saying,  and  give  it  up.” 

He  kissed  her  sadly,  but  made  no  reply. 

44  Business  in  Boston!”  said  John  Carew  to  himself,  on 
the  way  home.  44  Business  in  Boston  every  two  months, 
for  a literary  man — wonderful!  Business  which  makes  him 
wretched  before  and  shaky  after  it.  Business  which  he 
can  not  possibly  give  up.  Now,  if  I were  in  the  Gaboriau 
line,  I would  go  to  Boston  and  find  out  what  could  be  the 
business  which  takes  a journalist  there  once  in  two 
months.  This  is  the  secret  of  Mr.  George  Humphrey’s 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


123 


retreat  to  the  back  seat  of  suburban  journalism.  This  is 
the  skeleton  in  the  cupboard.  Business  in  Boston-— why 
does  he  say  Boston?  I don't  believe  he  goes  to  Boston.  Yet 
business  of  some  kind — of  a regular  kind,  of  an  unpleasant 
kind,  and  of  a kind  which  must  be  done.  I think  it  would 
not  be  difficult  to  find  out  where  his  business  lies  and  of 
what  kind  it  is.  Any  man  may  be  watched— such  a big 
man  would  find  it  very  difficult  to  escape  detection.  Yet 
— no,  Nettie— though  I should  like  to  discover  the  mys- 
tery, for  your  sake,  my  old  friend,  I will  not  seek  to  dis- 
turb your  happiness." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

HE  IS  ALIVE. 

In  the  morning,  among  the  letters,  John  Carew  found  on 
his  table  one  from  Elinor  Thanet.  It  reminded  him  of  a 
task  laid  upon  him  in  which  he  had  as  yet  taken  no  steps 
at  all.  In  fact,  it  was  a task  which  he  proposed  to  shirk, 
because  he  had  no  great  desire  that  the  young  lady's  lost 
lover  should  be  traced.  To  find  him  might  mean  the 
awakening  of  certain  old  emotions.  He  would  rather  wait, 
watch,  and  be  patient  until  the  day,  now  certainly  not  far 
distant,  when  she  should  herself  own  that  the  time  had- 
come  when  she  might  consider  herself  free. 

The  letter  gave  him  a disagreeable  reminder  of  neglected 
duty. 

46  My  dear  Friend,"  she  wrote,  66 1 once  asked  you  to 
help  me  in  finding  that  long-lost  lover  of  mine.  I do  not 
know  if  you  have  made  any  attempt,  or  if  you  have  met 
with  any  success  in  your  search.  But  you  would  have  told 
me  if  you  had.  Now  I have  something  for  you  to  go  upon. 
He  is  in  this  country.  He  has  quite  lately  been  at  Bright- 
on. He  may  be  there  now.  He  was  in  Brighton  three 
days  ago.  A letter  has  been  received  from  him,  in  his 


124 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


own  handwriting,  which  is  unmistakable.  I inclose  a copy 
of  it.  The  check  which  it  inclosed  has  been  honored  as  he 
directs  by  his  agents.  We  have  all  felt  the  greatest  relief 
that  he  is  really  living.  We  now  hope  to  find  out  very 
soon  where  he  is  and  why  he  went  away,  and  what  he  has 
been  doing  all  this  time.  The  Mystery  of  George  Atheling 
would  serve  for  the  title  of  a shilling  shocker.  I am  now 
wiser  than  I was  when  he  deserted  me.  Things  which 
would  then  appear  to  my  inexperienced  eyes  impossible 
now  seem  probable,  because  I have  learned  that  they  were 
common,  and  I believe  that  he  left  me  because  he  had 
fallen  in  love  with  somebody  else.  Further  than  this  I 
can  not  get.  For  if  he  married  that  other  girl  he  would 
have  wanted  money  to  maintain  her.  But  he  has  drawn 
no  money  for  three  years.  All  his  money  has  been  ac- 
cumulating. This  check  is  the  only  one  that  has  been 
drawn;  it  is  for  a large  amount;  but  then  I suppose  it 
represents  the  expenditure  of  three  years.  I put  all  kinds 
of  suppositions  before  myself.  1 suppose  that  he  may 
have  been  in  some  madhouse,  or  in  some  foreign  country, 
but  I can  not  tell  what  to  think.  Give  me,  if  you  can,  a 
little  of  your  thought.  Advise  me.  Find  my  old  friend 
for  me. 

“ Yours,  very  sincerely, 

“ Elinor.” 

John  Carew  read  this  letter  with  satisfaction.  She  had 
no  longer  any  love  for  this  old  friend  of  hers;  that  was 
plain.  Well,  what  was  he  to  do? 

The  letter  inclosed  was  very  plain  and  simple: 

“ Gentlemen, —Will  you  kindly  pay  to  the  account  of 
Mr.  Joseph  Mavis,  Union  Bank  of  London,  Tottenham 
Branch,  the  sum  of  five  thousand  pounds,  for  which  I in- 
close a check  on  my  own  bank. 

44  Yours,  very  truly, 

“ G.  H.  Atheling.” 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


125 


The  letter  was,  of  course,  only  a copy.  The  address 
given  was  at  a Brighton  hotel  and  not  one  of  the  best. 
And  though  the  letter,  was  dated  three  or  four  days  back, 
the  check  was  dated  at  the  end  of  May. 

He  began  the  search  at  once.  First  he  went  to  the  law- 
yers, Mr.  Atheling’s  agents.  He  found  that  they  had  car- 
ried out  the  instructions.  The  money  had  been  paid  to  the 
account  of  one  Joseph  Mavis,  at  Tottenham. 

“ Who  is  Joseph  Mavis?”  asked  the  professor. 

44  He  is  described  as  a gentleman  living  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. He  brought  an  introduction  from  some  local  trades- 
men— probably  he  is  himself  a tradesman  of  some  kind — ” 
44  It  seems  very  mysterious.  Have  you  sent  down  to 
Brighton?” 

44  We  have  written,  but  have  as  yet  received  no  answer.  ” 
44  Should  you  feel  justified  in  advertising?” 

The  lawyer  hesitated.  It  is  doubtful  as  yet  whether  we 
should.  Let  us  first  wait  for  the  answer  to  our  letter. 
We  wrote  to  ask  for  an  appointment.” 

44  You  ought  to  have  had  an  answer  before  this.  Stay, 
it  is  now  half  past  ten.  I will  catch  the  next  train  to 
Brighton  and  will  go  myself  for  an  answer.  Give  me  a 
letter  of  introduction.” 

The  hotel  named  in  the  letter  was  one  of  these  small 
places  in  the  upper  and  less  attractive  part  of  the  town — 
called  somebody’s  arms — a house  of  call  for  local  trades- 
men rather  than  a place  for  a gentleman  to  put  up.  John 
Carew  went  in  and  asked  for  Mr.  Atheling.  There  was 
nobody  of  that  name  in  the  hotel.  A letter  for  a gentle- 
man of  that  name  was  waiting  in  the  rack. 

44  But,”  said  John,  44  we  have  had  a letter  from  Mr. 
George  Atheling  giving  the  address  of  this  hotel.” 

This  fact  nobody  could  explain. 

44  Has  anybody  at  all  been  staying  here  lately?” 

44  There  was  a gentleman.”  said  the  chamber-maid. 


126 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


“ He  was  here  a week  and  went  away  three  days  ago — Mr. 
Mavis  his  name  was.”  * 1 

“ Mr.  Joseph  Mavis?” 

“ I don't  know,  sir.  He  did  not  leave  his  Christian 
name.” 

This  was  an  important  fact,  however.  No  Atheling  had 
been  there  at  all.  But  Mavis  had — and  Mavis,  therefore, 
to  whom  the  money  was  payable,  had  posted  and  probably 
dated  the  letter  of  instructions.  Atheling,  meantime,  who 
had  drawn  the  check  two  months  before  was  not  with  him. 
Yet  the  letter  of  instructions  addressed  at  this  hotel  was 
dated  three  days  before. 

John  Carew  came  back  to  town  with  this  news. 

“ Now,”  he  said,  summing  up,  “ this  man  writes  a let- 
ter; the  handwriting  is,  you  say,  undoubtedly  his  own;  an- 
other hand  puts  an  address  and  a date  to  it.  The  address 
is  false  and  so  is  the  date,  because  the  check  is  dated  two 
months  before.  Where  is  the  man  who  wrote  the  letter 
and  drew  the  check?  Why  was  the  false  address  given? 
Who  and  what  is  the  man  named  Mavis?” 

66  That  we  can  find  out  very  easily,  I take  it.” 

66  Are  we  not  gone  far  enough  to  advertise — there  is 
nothing  like  an  advertisement.  Advertise  in  all  the  papers 
simultaneously.  Do  this  first,  while  you  go  on  finding  out 
who  this  man  Mavis  is.  Are  there  any  distinctive  features 
by  which  Atheling  can  be  recognized?” 

“ Well,  yes — he  is  the  kind  of  man  who  could  be  de- 
scribed so  that  recognition  would  be  certain.” 

44  Let  us  offer  a reward,  then;  a good  big  reward;  a 
hundred  pounds  reward  for  such  information  as  will  lead 
to  his  discovery.  The  papers  are  sure  to  take  it  up — 
within  twenty-four  hours  the  whole  country  will  be  on  the 
lookout  for  the  man.” 

This  arranged,  John  Carew  could  do  no  more.  He 
wrote  to  Elinor  and  reported  what  he  had  done. 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


127 


It  was  by  this  time  evening  and  his  friend,  George 
Humphrey,  was  to  call  in  an  hour  or  two.  He  took  a 
hasty  dinner  at  the  club  and  hurried  back  to  his  room. 

The  talk  flagged  that  evening.  George  Humphrey  was 
gloomy.  The  other  man  was  occupied  with  the  difficulties 
of  the  situation. 

44  1 must  tell  you//  he  said  at  last.  46 1 can  think  of 
nothing  else.” 

44  What  is  it?” 

44 1 am  trying  to  discover  a man  who  has  vanished,  and 
I fear  there  has  been  villainy.” 

44  A man  who  has  vanished — who  is  the  man?” 

44  He  is  a man — his  name  matters  nothing — yet  it  will 
be  in  all  the  papers  to-morrow.  His  name  is  Atheling — 
George  Atheling  ” — he  was  so  much  interested  in  his  story 
that  he  did  not  observe  the  sudden  change  in  his  com- 
panion’s face. 

44  Atheling,”  George  repeated. 

44  This  is  the  story.  He  was  engaged  to  a young  lady — 
then  almost  a girl.  He  was  a wealthy  man.  He  had 
everything  that  any  man  can  hope  to  have.  He  was 
young,  rich,  healthy,  strong,  clever,  highly  cultivated, 
and  apparently  with  a great  future  before  him.  Yet  he 
disappeared  suddenly.” 

44  Why?” 

44  Nobody  knows.” 

44  Nobody?  Did  not  the  girl  herself  ever  tell  why  he 
went  away?” 

44  She  never  knew — she  could  not  so  much  as  guess. 
He  vanished.  That  is  all  we  know.  It  was  discovered 
Jffiat  two  years  later  he  drew  some  money.  Then  he  van- 
ished again,  and  this  time  altogether.” 

44  Were  not  any  of  his  companions  found  to  tell  where 
he  had  been?” 

44  No  public  inquiry  was  ever  made  and  no  search  in- 


128  THE  DEMON r AC. 

stituted.  Therefore  we  don't  even  know  who  his  com- 
panions were." 

“ But  the  girl.  Did  he  not  write  to  the  girl?  Surely, 
he  must  have  written  one  letter — just  one,  only  to  explain. 
Men  don't  leave  girls  suddenly  without  some  sort  of  an  ex- 
planation." 

“ He  made  none." 

“ Oh!"  George  looked  surprised,  as  if  he  knew  some- 
thing—that  is  to  say,  John  Carew  remembered  afterward 
— too  late— this  look  of  surprise. 

“ It  appears,  you  see,  that  the  girl  and  her  lover  had 
some  kind  of  a quarrel— she  told  him  he  was  not  himself 
— he  was  somehow  changed — it  may  have  been  nothing — a 
fit  of  indisposition — she  bade  him  go  away  and  not  come 
back  until  he  could  recover  his  lost  energies.  So  he  went 
— but  she  added,  unfortunately  for  herself,  that  she  should 
continue  to  remain  bound  to  him  till  he  should,  when  re- 
turned to  his  right  mind,  release  her;  and  she  continues  to 
consider  herself  bound  to  him  to  this  day." 

“Oh!  but  this  is  pure  absurdity." 

“As  1 tell  her.  Such,  however,  is  the  fact.  Now 
comes  the  important  thing.  We  have  at  last  discovered 
that  he  is  still  alive  or  that  he  was  alive  a month  or  two 
ago." 

“ Indeed?  How?  Has  he  been  seen?" 

“ No.  His  lawyer  received,  however,  two  or  three  days 
ago,  a letter  from  him — " 

“ From  him?" 

“ From  him.  Unmistakably  in  his  handwriting.  It 
was  dated  from  a small  hotel  at  Brighton.  It  contained  a 
large  check  and  it  ordered  the  lawyers  to  pay  this  into  a 
certain  account. " 

“Oh!  this  is  very  mysterious."  George  was  entering 
thoroughly  into  the  mystery  of  the  situation.  “Very 
strange  and  interesting,  indeed.  He  wrote  from  Bright- 
on?" 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


129 


“ Yes.  Now,,  the  check  was  dated  some  weeks  before 
the  letter.  The  instructions  were  carried  out,  and  the 
young  lady  has  been  informed  that  her  former  lover  is  still 
living.  She  asked  me  to  assist  in  finding  him.  I went 
down  to  Brighton,  and  found  that  the  man  had  never  been 
at  the  hotel  at  all,  unless  he  was  there  under  a false 
name.” 

“You  are  sure  that  there  was  a check?  Yes— for  how 
much£” 

“ It  was  a large  check.  For  five  thousand  pounds.” 

“ For  five  thousand  pounds?  The  letter  and  the  check 
were  both  in  his  handwriting?  You  are  sure  of  this?” 

“The  lawyers  were  quite  sure  upon  the  point.  What 
do  you  think?  That  a crime  has  been  committed?” 

“ A crime — of  some  kind,”  he  replied.  He  shivered, 
he  turned  pale,  he  remained  in  silence  for  awhile.  The 
other  man  thought  he  was  turning  the  problem  over  in  his 
own  mind. 

“I  suppose,”  he  said,  “that  there  will  now  be  more 
checks  drawn,  and  continually  more.” 

“The  man  may  spend  his  own  money  as  he  pleases — 
cm  he  not?” 

“ Certainly.  Oh,  certainly!  Well,  it  will  last  a good 
while,  that  is  one  comfort.  ” 

“Yes.  It  will  take  a good  many  checks  to  exhaust  that 
little  pile.” 

“What  did  you  say  you  propose  to  do?  You  have 
formed  some  plan?” 

“We  must  find  him,  wherever  he  is.  That  seems  a 
clear  duty.  ” 

“ You  think  so?” 

“ Certainly,  we  must  find  him.  At  present  it  looks  as 
if  he  might  be  in  somebody^  power.  He  signs  a check 
for  a very  large  sum.  He  writes  a letter  which  he  neither 
addresses  nor  dates.  Perhaps  he  is  all  the  time  miserably 

5 


130 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


locked  up  in  a madhouse,  in  the  hands  of  some  villain — 
but  we  know  nothing.  It  is  a mystery  which  must  be 
cleared  up.  Remember,  he  is  rich.  Those  who  have  him 
in  their  power  may  mean  to  keep  him  until  they  can  get 
the  last  farthing  out  of  him.  He  has  friends  who  have 
not  forgotten  him,  and  he  has  heirs  who  are  interested  in 
seeing  that  his  estates  are  not  robbed.  You  are  a man  of 
the  world,  Humphrey.  Can  you  suggest  anything?” 

44  I should  like  to  know  your  own  ideas  first.” 

“ I think  we  should  advertise.  We  should  advertise  a 
description  of  the  man  as  he  looked  when  he  was  last  seen: 
how  he  was  dressed,  color  of  his  eyes  and  hair,  size  and 
shape  of  him,  any  marks,  and  so  forth.  ” 

66  Do  you  yourself  know  what  he  is  like?  Have  you  a 
description  of  him?” 

44  No.  But  the  lawyer  people  at  the  office  say  that  they 
can  describe  him  so  that  it  would  be  perfectly  easy  to  find 
him.  They  were  doubtful  about  it  at  first,  because,  you 
see,  it  is  rather  an  awkward  thing  to  advertise  for  your 
clients.  But  this  discovery  that  he  has  never  been  to 
Brighton  at  all,  and  that  the  letter  was  wrongly  addressed 
and  dated,  has  frightened  them,  and  they  now  seem  ready 
to  go  on  until  they  find  out.  What  do  you  think?” 

44  I think,”  said  George,  rising,  44  that  you  are  quite  cer~ 
tain  to  find  out  where  he  is  if  you  do  advertise — and  that 
before  many  hours.  But,  instead  of  advertising,  I should, 
if  I were  you,  do  nothing  at  all.  Consider,  he  has  written 
a letter  to  his  lawyer.  This  may  prove  the  intention  of 
letting  it  be  known  that  he  is,  at  least,  alive.  If  he  is  a 
wise  man  he  will,  from  time  to  time,  let  his  former  friends 
and  his  agents  know  that  he  is  living.  But  when  a man 
voluntarily  goes  away  and  disappears,  there  must  be  rea- 
sons— good  reasons.  This  man  would  seem  to  have  drawn 
no  money.  The  conclusions  that  may  be  drawn  from  this 
fact  are  many.  One  is  quite  clear,  he  does  not  wish  his 
new  way  of  life  to  be  known.  The  man,  you  say,  is  a gen- 


THE  DEMONIAC.  131 

tleman — why  not  respect  his  wishes — certainly  the  harm- 
less wishes — of  this  gentleman?” 

Some  men.  might  have  suspected  the  truth.  There  are 
not  so  many  gentlemen  and  scholars  in  the  lower  walks. 
But  John  Oarew  had  so  made  up  his  mind  this  man  was  an 
Australian,  that  he  did  not  suspect.  Whan  he  did  arrive 
at,  however;  was  something  very  near  the  truth. 

44  Humphrey,”  he  said,  44  you  speak  from  your  own  ex- 
perience. 1 have  long  suspected  this.  You  have  yourself 
broken  with  your  friends  in  Australia.  You  no  longer 
communicate  with  your  own  people.  You  have  chosen  to 
disappear.” 

44  For  very  good  reasons,  perhaps  the  very  same  reasons 
as  those  which  drove  that  other  man  out  of  sight.  Yes, 
you  are  quite  right.  I need  not  ask  you  to  respect  my 
secret.  But,  since  you  are  willing  to  understand  my  posi- 
tion, can  you  not  also  understand  that  the  other  man's 
may  be  exactly  the  same — complicated  by  the  addition  of 
this  great  fortune  which  he  may  be  unwilling  to  assume 
again,  either  for  himself  or  for, his  family?” 

44  Yes,  I see.  I will  think  it  over.  After  all,  if  we  can 
only  get  tidings  of  his  welfare  and  an  assurance  that  he  is 
a free  agent,  that  should  be  enough.” 

44 1 thinkjt  should  be  enough.  A discovery  might,  it  is 
conceivable,  do  him  a very  serious  injury.  For  instance, 
take  my  case,  your  surmise  is  quite  correct;  1 have  cous- 
ins here  in  England  in  a very  good  position.  It  would  not 
please  them  to  find  me  where  and  what  I am,  nor  would  it 
make  my  wife  and  the  children,  when  they  grow  up,  any 
the  happier  for  knowing  where  they  might  have  been,  but 
for  reasons.  You  know  the  motto  of  the  Courtenays — Ubi 
lapsus  (very  bad  Latin) — it  should  be  mine,  it  may  be 
Atheling's.  ” 

44  Yes.  1 think  that  we  have  been,  perhaps,  too  hasty. 
I will  try  to  stop  that  advertisement  at  once.” 

In  fact  he  did  try.  Unfortunately,  he  was  too  late. 


132 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


46  Let  me  see  you  again  soon.  Can  we  meet  to-morrow 
or  next  day?  In  such  a case  as  this  a third  person  —a 
totally  uninterested  person  like  yourself — ” 

4 4 Yes/ 5 said  George,  calmly. 

“May  be  of  the  greatest  service. ” 

“Unfortunately/’  George  replied,  “ 1 am  engaged  for 
two  or  three  days  ahead.  1 must  go  out  of  town.  1 have 
certain  business  to  look  after — at  Boston.” 

Next  day  Elinor  received  a letter  without  any  address 
which  bore  the  postmark  of  Kensington — a good  central 
postmark.  She  knew  the  writing. 

“ At  last,”  she  cried,  and  tore  open  the  letter. 

“ My  dear  Elinor, — Five  years  ago  I wrote  a letter  in 
which  I told  you  exactly  the  reasons  why  I had  changed  so 
greatly  in  two  or  three  months.  I did  not  bind  you  to 
secrecy,  but  so  far  as  I have  been  able  to  learn  you  have 
kept  these  reasons  a secret.  I expected  some  reply,  but 
after  waiting  some  time  I concluded  that  I should  have 
none.  As  an  opportunity  now  occurs  to  write  you  again, 
and  as  1 have  learned  that  you  are  still  unmarried,  if  that 
fact  has  any  connection  with  me,  1 most  earnestly  beg  that 
it  may  at  once  cease.  My  letter,  indeed,  gave  you  your 
release  freely,  and  from  that  moment  I can  not  believe 
that  you  could  misunderstand  it.  1 remain  always,  with 
friendly  and  affectionate  memories,  your  old  friend, 

“G.  A.” 

“ At  last  he  has  written,”  said  Elinor.  “ It  is  his  hand- 
writing— it  was  written  yesterday.  But  he  tells  me  noth- 
ing. Well — I am  free — of  course  1 was  free  before,  when- 
ever 1 pleased,  and  I think  I am  pleased  now.  1 have  had 
my  freedom  long  enough.  What  does  he  mean  about  a 
former  letter?  Oh!  he  is  mad.  I believe  he  was  mad  then 
— I believe  he  has  been  mad  ever  since.  George  must 
have  been  locked  up  in  some  foreign  madhouse.” 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


133 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

BUSINESS  AT  BOSTON. 

George  Humphrey  sat  with  his  wife  in  the  little  slip  of 
a garden  behind  the  toy  villa.  It  was  blossoming  as  finely 
as  if  it  belonged  to  a great  house.  Allow  for  certain  well- 
known  limitations  of  the  London  air  and  you  may  make  a 
suburban  garden  bright  with  flowers  in  the  leafy  months 
of  July  and  August.  Lilies,  nasturtium,  mignonette,  the 
blue  lobelia,  hardy  annuals  by  the  dozen  will  adorn  the 
narrow  bit  of  ground.  The  children  were  in  bed.  The 
sun  had  gone  down.  It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock,  but  there 
was  still  plenty  of  light. 

Husband  and  wife  sat  hand  in  hand.  They  were  silent; 
their  looks  were  melancholy;  forebodings  filled  the  mind 
of  one;  he  saw  that  the  thing,  long  expected,  had  at  last 
arrived;  his  servant,  who  for  five  years  robbed  him  secret- 
ly, was  now  beginning  to  rob  him  without  concealment. 
He  knew  how  the  letter  must  have  been  written  and  the 
check  signed,  by  whose  dictation  and  what  circumstances. 
Once  begun,  the  thing  would  be  repeated.  He  had  known 
since  the  experience  of  the  voyage  that  he  was  in  the  hands 
of  a perfectly  unscrupulous  and  calculating  person.  So 
long  as  this  person  did  what  he  was  paid  to  do,  that  mat- 
tered nothing.  Not  until  now  had  he  realized  how  com- 
pletely he  had  fallen  into  the  man's  power.  And  he  was 
coming  again.  That  very  evening  he  would  come.  At 
the  thought  of  the  orgy  which  would  follow  and  the  com- 
panionship of  this  creature  his  soul  sunk  within  him.  One 
way  out  of  it.  Yet  he  had  long  forgotten  the  very  possi- 
bility of  this  way. 

“My  dear,"  said  Nettie,  timidly,  “ have  you  thought 
any  more  of  what  John  Carew  said?  I mean  that  you 


134 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


should  give  up  all  the  lower  kind  of  work  and  go  in  alto- 
gether for  the  best  journalism.” 

“ Yes — I have  thought  of  it,  Nettie.  1 am  always 
thinking  of  it.” 

“ It  has  made  me  so  proud  to  see  your  papers  in  the 
‘ Review  9 week  after  week.  Even  my  father,  who  is  so 
dead  set  against  the  profession,  acknowledged  that  there 
was  something  to  be  proud  of  in  being  connected  with  such 
a paper.  If  you  could  only  keep  to  that  kind  of  work 
alone.  Then  I have  had  more  talk  with  John  Carew — all 
about  you,  dear.  He  says  that  you  have  seen  so  much  of 
the  world  and  had  so  many  experiences  that  you  ought  to 
write  a splendid  novel.  Think  of  that,  dear!” 

“ An  autobiography?  Yes;  I might  write  a powerful 
autobiography.” 

46  Well,  dear,  why  not?  The  children  should  learn  to 
be  proud  of  their  father.  I know  how  clever  he  is.  Let 
them  know,  too.  Let  all  the  world  know.  Oh,  since  we 
have  been  to  John  Carew’s  chambers  and  talked  with  him 
the  world  seems  to  have  changed.  Why,  I can  understand 
what  makes  men  discontented.  Our  young  men  are 
brought  up  to  believe  that  there  is  nothing  possible  for 
them  but  to  become  clerks.  They  have  no  ambition  even 
to  make  themselves  rich.  But  other  men — young  men 
like  John  Carew— talk  as  if  there  was  nothing  in  life  worth 
anything  except  ambition.” 

“There  isn’t— much.” 

“ And  yet  for  three  years  you  have  been  contented  to  sit 
down  here  and  toil  for  next  to  nothing  for  that  wretched 
local  paper.  ' And  you  know  the  world.  How  could  you 
do  it?  Why,  George!  When  I knew  no  better  I wanted 
no  better.  But  you  always  knew  and  yet  you  were  con- 
tented. You  were  even  happy.  How  could  you,  George? 
Was  it  because?  you  had  married  me?” 

“ My  dear,  it  was  because  1 could  not  get  rid  of  that 


THE  DEM  OKI  AC.  135 

other  Me — myself— Me.  You  helped  me  to  become  con- 
tented.” 

She  shook  her  head.  Who  was  the  other  Me? 

‘‘Give  up  this  Boston  business/5  she  urged  again. 
“ Give  that  up,  and  I believe  all  would  be  right  again.” 

44  Perhaps  it  would.  Yet  I can  not  give  it  up.  ” 

44  I feel  sure  that  it  stands  in  your  way.  If  you  gave  it 
up  you  might  go  among  gentlemen  again.  Why  are 
you  afraid  of  going  among  gentlemen?  You  are  a gentle- 
man yourself— I have  known  it  all  along — you  are  as  su- 
perior to  my  brothers  as  John  Carew  is.  You  belong  to 
his  set,  not  to  ours.  I can  see  it  in  the  difference  of  your 
manners  when  you  are  with  him.  You  are  with  an  equal. 
With  the  men  here  you  can  not  disguise  that  you  are  their 
superior.  How  could  you  ever  marry  me?’5 
He  patted  her  cheek  but  said  nothing. 

44  George,  1 should  like  our  boys  to  be  gentlemen,  too, 
unless  their  mother  stands  in  the  way — ” 

44  No,  Nettie,  no.  It  is  their  father.” 

44  They  are  the  sons  of  a gentleman.  Won’t  you  give 
them  their  right  place — won’t  you  sacrifice  this — whatever 
it  is  that  stands  in  their  way,  for  the  sake  of  your  wife  and 
children?” 

The  man  sat  silent.  He  heard  another  voice  besides— a 
voice  of  three  years  agone — the  voice  of  the  physician  who 
warned  him. 

44  There  is  no  other  chance.  It  is  that  for  the  sake  of 
some  person — out  of  some  great  affection — you  may  arm 
yourself  with  resolution  enough  to  fight  the  thing.” 

The  voice  spoke  not  quite  clearly.  He  looked  down  upon 
his  wife’s  comely  head;  he  stooped  and  kissed  it— 44 1 ivill 
give  up  the  cursed  thing,”  he  said.  44  Whatever  happens, 
I will  give  it  up.  I will  go  back  to  my  old  friends.  Your 
boys,  my  dear,  shall  be  gentlemen  as  their  father  was  when 
he  began  the  world.” 


136 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


“George!  You  will?  You  promise  faithfully?”  She 
caught  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 

“ I promise  faithfully — ” He  raised  his  head  and  saw 
at  the  head  of  the  garden  steps  the  man  whom  he  was  ex- 
pecting. “I  promise,  my  dear.  I go  to  Boston  for  the 
last  time.  1 must  make  my  arrangements  to  wind  up  the 
business.  Then  1 shall  come  home.  For  the  last  time. 
You  have  seen  Mavis  for  the  last  time.” 

He  kissed  her  and  ran  up  the  steps. 

Five  minutes  later  he  was  gone. 

“ But,”  said  his  wife,  “ it  is  for  the  last  time.  That 
dreadful  man  will  come  here  no  more.” 

Like  many  men,  George  Humphrey^  habits  were  such 
as  to  require  the  services  of  somebody  to  put  his  dressing- 
room  in  order  after  every  visit  he  made  to  that  apartment. 
The  wife  ran  up  to  perform  the  duty.  The  drawers  were 
open,  most  of  the  contents  were  lying  on  the  floor  or  on 
the  single  chair.  George  had  been  putting  a few  things  in 
his  bag. 

She  began  to  pick  up  the  things  and  to  put  them  back. 
In  a few  minutes  the  room  was  in  order  again.  The  last 
thing  she  picked  up  was  an  old  overcoat  which  hung  from 
the  wall. 

“ George  never  wears  this,”  she  said.  “ 1 have  never 
seen  him  put  it  on.  It 5s  quite  an  old  thing,  too.  It  only 
takes  up  room.  1 will  put  it  with  the  next  bundle  that 
goes.  It  will  bring  in  something.  ” She  began  to  search 
the  pockets,  a precaution  observed  both  by  those  who  sell 
old  clothes  and  by  those  who  buy  them.  Money  has  been 
found  forgotten  in  the  pockets.  1 believe  that  it  is  at 
Guy’s  that  there  lingers  a traditional  romance  or  romantic 
tradition  of  a student  who  was  reduced  to  his  last  gasp  and 
on  the  point  of  renouncing  his  career  when  he  discovered 
in  the  left-hand  pocket  of  a forgotten  reach-me-down  a 
whole  sovereign.  He  remained  at  the  hospital  and  became 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


137 


a baronet,  his  son  became  a baron,  and  his  grandson  an 
earl.  And  the  romance  remains  for  the  comfort  of  all 
penniless  students. 

There  was  no  money  in  this  overcoat.  It  belonged  to 
the  days  when  George  had  a valet,  which  accounts  for  the 
fact,  but  in  the  breast-pocket  there  was  a letter.  She 
drew  it  out.  The  letter  was  in  an  envelope  stamped  and 
ready  to  be  posted.  It  was  too  dark  to  read  the  address. 

Nettie  carried  the  letter  down-stairs— thinking  to  give  it 
to  her  husband  in  the  morning.  But  when  she  had  lighted 
a candle  she  read  the  address.  Miss  Thanet — who  was 
Miss  Thanet? 

The  envelope  which  had  lain  in  that  pocket  for  five 
years  showed  signs  of  wear.  The  coat  had  been  put  on 
and  thrown  off  a hundred  times,  but  the  letter  had  never 
been  discovered.  It  had  traveled  all  round  the  world.  It 
had  been  hanging  up  in  the  dressing-room.  Nettie  herself 
had  taken  it  down,  brushed  it  a dozen  times,  but  the  letter 
lay  there  undiscovered. 

Nettie  read  the  superscription  once  more. 

1 think  that  up  to  that  moment  she  had  never  felt  the 
smallest  jealousy  of  her  husband.  Now,  therefore,  when 
jealousy  awoke  full  grown  in  her  heart,  it  was  accompanied 
by  curiosity.  Under  these  influences,  which  caused  her 
eyes  to  glow  and  her  lip  to  stiffen,  she  tore  open  the  en- 
velope and  read  the  letter.  You  have  seen  it  once.  Read 
it  again. 

66  My  dear  Nellie,— You  told  me  on  Monday  to  re- 
turn to  you,  when  I could  go  back  in  the  guise  and  sem- 
blance of  your  old  friend.  I denied  at  the  time  your 
charge  that  something  must  have  happened.  1 will  tell 
you  plainly  what  has  happened.  I have  become  in  the 
short  space  of  four  months  one  of  those  unhappy  men 
whom  I was  wont  to  despise,  called  confirmed  drunkards! 
I kept  from  you  all  the  summer,  hoping  that  the  habit 


138 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


would  pass  away.  It  has  not  passed  away.  It  is,  on  the 
contrary,  stronger  than  ever,  and  now  I believe  that  1 shall 
be  a slave  for  life.  If  it  is  any  excuse  I might  plead  that 
the  vice  is  hereditary,  but  the  physician  whom  I have  con- 
sulted will  not  allow  that  this  is  an  excuse.  The  real  fault 
is  my  now  disgraceful  cowardice.  I went  to  you  the  other 
day  resolved  upon  telling  you  the  exact  truth.  I could 
not.  Thereupon  1 insulted,  pained  you  beyond  endurance. 
You  said  that  you  should  continue  to  regard  yourself  as 
engaged  to  me  until  I gave  you  release.  Take  your  re- 
lease. You  are  free.  Forget  me  as  soon  as  you  can,  and 
do  not  blame  me  more  than  you  can  help. 

“I  am  going  to  try  the  effect  of  a long  sea  voyage.  If 
that  succeeds — which  I doubt — I will  visit  you  on  my  return 
as  an  old  friend,  no  longer  a lover.  If  it  does  not  succeed 
1 shall  never  write  to  you  or  see  you  again. 

“George  Humphrey  Atheling.” 

The  letter  she  read  through  once,  twice,  three  times. 
Jealousy  sunk  back  abashed  and  cowed,  curiosity  hung  her 
meddlesome  head.  In  the  presence  of  this  terrible  confes- 
sion both  those  passions  slunk  away  and  vanished.  The 
concluding  paragraph,  with  the  signature,  passed  before 
her  eyes  unseen.  She  read  nothing  but  the  awful  avowal 
of  a confirmed  and  habitual  drunkard. 

“ Oh!”  she  thought — if  her  thoughts  could  be  put  into 
words,  a process  which  deprives  them  of  swiftness,  of  brill- 
iancy, of  eloquence,  and  of  persuasion.  “ I know  now. 
He  goes  mad  for  drink.  This  explains  everything.  He 
has  run  away  from  all  his  friends,  so  they  should  never 
find  it  out  for  the  very  shame  of  it.  He  lives  apart  from 
them  because  they  won't  let  him  live  with  them,  and  the 
man  Mavis  is  nothing  but  his  keeper,  who  is  paid  to  take 
care  of  him  when  he  has  a fit.  He  has  one  coming  on 
now.  He  goes  somewhere  with  this  man  and  stays  until  the 
fit  is  over.  The  business  in  Boston  is  to  get  drunk  with- 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


139 


out  anybody  knowing  it.  Oh!  George— George — my  poor 
husband!  My  poor  dear!  My  poor  dear!” 

What  should  she  do? 

The  first  thought  of  such  a woman  so  brought  up  is  for 
the  daily  bread  of  her  children.  Those  who  have  never 
known  the  peril  of  such  poverty  as  lessens  the  daily  bread 
do  not  begin  by  thinking  of  such  a thing.  The  daughter 
of  the  small  clerk  thinks  of  it  always.  She  has  had  actual 
experience  either  of  her  own  or  of  friends  in  this  direction. 
She  has  either  felt  or  witnessed  others  feeling  the  actual 
pinch  of  unsatisfied  hunger.  Was  the  daily  bread  of  her 
children  in  danger?  Wrell,  for  those  three  years  of  her 
marriage  there  had  always  been  enough  and  more  than 
enough.  Business  at  Boston  had  never,  so  far,  interfered 
with  the  supplies. 

Then  she  thought  of  other  things,  but  in  no  proper 
sequence.  A well-ordered  mind  would,  1 dare  say,  con- 
sider the  degradation  of  the  man  first  of  all.  Nettie  did 
not.  She  considered  the  triumph  of  her  mother  and  sister 
when  the  thing  was  found  out — if  it  should  be  found  out. 
And  this  thought  filled  her  with  rage  and  shame.  She 
pictured  her  father,  grave,  but  not  dissatisfied  to  find  that 
his  prejudice  against  journalists  was  justified.  Also  the 
malicious  joy  of  Jier  brother  Horatio,  himself  too  much 
addicted  to  the  cheerful  glass  and  the  convivial  bar. 

Business  at  Boston.  That  meant,  she  was  perfectly  cer- 
tain, business' at  Mavis's  house.  She  knew  his  address. 
Her  husband  gave  it  to  her  once,  with  the  injunction  that 
if  he  should  at  any  time  be  taken  ill  she  was  to  send  for 
Mavis  at  once  in  order  to  get  business  of  an  important 
kind  arranged.  Suppose  she  was  to  go  there  as  well.  She 
might  get  into  the  house;  she  might  bring  her  husband 
home  safely.  She  might  at  least  satisfy  herself  about  these 
suspicions. 

It  was  about  half  past  nine.  She  called  her  single  serv- 
ant. “ Lam  going  out  with  the  master,”  she  said.  “It 


140 


THE  DEMOUNT  AC. 


may  be  quite  late  before  I get  back.  Take  both  the  chil- 
dren into  your  own  room.” 

Then  she  put  on  her  hat  and  jacket  and  sallied  forth. 

Within  ten  minutes*  walk  she  came  to  the  great  high- 
road running  north  to  Tottenham  and  Enfield  and  what- 
ever lies  beyond.  In  this  high-road  there  are  frequent 
tram-cars.  She  got  into  one  of  them  and  was  borne  north- 
ward. 

Mr.  Mavis  occupied  a cottage  standing  in  its  own 
grounds  in  the  broad  valley  of  the  river  Lea,  near  Totten- 
ham. Though  the  town  of  Tottenham  has  been  ruined 
and  spoiled  worse  than  any  other  suburban  town,  by  the 
erection  of  rows  and  terraces  of  hideous  houses,  there  are 
places  where  some  of  the  old  houses — not  the  great  old 
houses  but  the  little  cottages— may  still  be  found.  This 
house,  built  of  the  old  red  brick  and  surrounded  by  a high 
red  brick  wall,  stood  in  the  middle  of  a really  spacious 
garden  among  trees;  a cottage  quite  secluded  and  shut  in. 
It  was  the  last  in  the  road,  and  beyond  it  was  the  low-lying 
meadows  on  either  side  of  the  Lea. 

The  cottage  was  for  the  most  part  unoccupied.  No 
servant  lived  there  and  no  care-taker;  no  gardener  attend- 
ed to  cut  the  grass  and  attend  to  the  flower  beds — the 
place  was  deserted  save  that  once  in  awhile  there  were  seen 
lights  and  voices  were  heard.  Yet  it  was  tenanted;  the 
rent  and  the  rates  and  taxes  were  paid  with  regularity. 
It  was  said  that  a misanthropist  lived  here  all  by  himself; 
he  was  a hermit;  he  was  a miser;  he  was  a criminal;  no 
one  knew  who  he  was  or  what.  Such  tenants,  so  un- 
known, so  mysterious,  are  not  uncommon  in  London. 
For  instance,  there  was  a set  of  chambers  in  a certain  inn 
some  years  ago  let  to  a man  whose  name  was  over  the 
door.  The  name  remained  over  the  door  for  twenty  years, 
during  which  the  tenant  never  once  came  to  the  rooms, 
nor  did  any  one  else,  nor  were  the  rooms  entered.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  there  was  occasion  to  take  up  the  floor  for 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


141 


some  gas  pipes.  It  was  found  that  the  rooms  were  abso- 
lutely bare  and  unfurnished.  Why  had  the  tenant  taken 
those  rooms? 

Nettie  found  the  place  with  little  difficulty.  She  pushed 
open  the  gate  and  walked  in,  her  courage  rather  failing 
her  as  the  time  for  action  approached. 

There  was  no  light  in  the  front  of  the  house.  She 
walked  across  the  long  rank  grass  of  the  neglected  lawn. 
The  air  was  heavy  with  the  fragrance  of  mignonette* 
honeysuckle  and  all  the  flowers  of  midsummer. 

She  stood  in  the  porch  and  listened.  She  heard  the 
voices  of  men  disputing.  Her  husband  was  there,  then. 
She  recognized  his  voice. 

She  stole  round  to  the  back  of  the  house.  There  was  a 
light  on  the  ground  floor.  But  a white  blind  was  pulled 
down  and  she  could  see  ndthing.  She  listened,  but  the 
men  talked  in  a low  tone.  She  could  distinguish  nothing. 
She  went  back  to  the  porch.  She  would  knock  at  the 
door  and  call  her  husband  out.  Feeling  for  the  knocker, 
she  became  aware  that  the  door  yielded.  It  was  not  shut. 
She  opened  it  cautiously  and  looked  in.  Everything  was 
dark,  but  the  shadows  defined  themselves.  She  saw  that 
the  little  hall  was  empty,  for  a light  shone  through  the 
key-hole  and  under  a door. 

She  stepped  lightly  across  the  hall,  afraid  of  creaking 
boards. 

Then  she  stooped — the  thing  has  been  often  done  be- 
fore; it  is  almost  classical;  at  such  a moment,  and  under 
such  circumstances  one  is  prepared  to  defend  it;  if  it  is 
necessary  to  find  out  what  is  going  on  in  a room  it  is  often 
the  only  way;  Nettie  wanted  very  much  to  know;  it  was 
necessary  that  she  should  know;  the  thing  was  too  terrible 
not  to  be  faced;  therefore  she  stooped  and — she  looked 
through  the  key-hole. 

Yes.  Her  husband  was  there,  and  the  man  Mavis. 


142 


THE  DEM  OK  I AC. 


The  table  was  covered  with  bottles,  tumblers,  jugs  of 
water  and  bottles  of  soda  potash  and  seltzer. 

44 1 tell  you/5  said  George,  44  that  the  time  has  come  to 
make  a stand.  To-night,  you  say  it  is  the  night  when  the 
devil  is  due.  I feel  nothing.  1 am  sober.  1 have  no 
thirst  upon  me  at  all.  I believe  that  if  you  had  not 
come— 55 

“lam  paid  to  come.55 

66 1 should  not  have  been  troubled  at  all.  I believe  you 
call  the  devil  up — 55 

44  He  would  come  without  any  calling  from  me.  Why, 
now,55  said  Mavis,  64  before  a quarter  of  an  hour-r-be- 
fore 55 — he  watched  his  masters  face  keenly— 44  before  five 
— three  minutes  are  out  you  will  have  a tickling  in  the 
throat,  then  a dryness,  next  a hot  and  dry  tickling,  and 
then — 55 

44  Damn  you,55  said  George,  44  you  have  called  the  devil, 
and  he  has  come.  Let  me  have  air  and  I will  fight  him.55 

He  pulled  up  the  blind  and  threw  the  window  wide  open. 

Nettie  reflected  that  it  would  be  safer  and  easier  to  look 
through  the  window  than  through  the  key-hole.  Moreover, 
she  would  be  able  to  see  more.  She  therefore  abandoned 
her  position  and  stole  out  of  the  house  and  so  round  to  the 
back.  Her  husband  was  leaning  out  of  the  window 
breathing  the  fresh  air  as  if  for  coolness.  44  Oh!55  she 
thought,  44 1 might  throw  my  arm  round  his  neck  and 
drag  him  away.55 

It  is  a pity,  perhaps,  that  she  did  not.  But  too  often 
we  let  pass  the  first  thought,  which  is  always  the  right 
thought,  free  from  cowardice,  pure  from  any  unworthy 
motives.  She  did  not  throw  her  arms  about  him  and  woo 
him  away.  She  took  up  a position  under  an  ash-tree,  not 
too  far  from  the  window.  The  long  branches  fell  round 
her  like  a veil.  She  held  back  the  leaves,  and  could  see 
and  hear  as  well  as  if  she  were  in  the  room. 

Her  husband  left  the  window  and  began  to  pace  the 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


143 


room  restlessly.  It  was  a den  of  a room.  There  was  a 
small  table  of  the  commonest  kind;  one  wooden  arm-chair 
was  at  the  head  of  the  table,  another  at  one  side;  the  first 
was  empty,  on  the  second  sat  the  man  Mavis.  The  only 
other  furniture  in  the  room  was  a great  sofa — long  enough 
and  broad  enough,  Nettie  observed,  even  for  her  great 
giant  of  a husband.  The  place  was  dirty,  unswept,  un- 
washed. 

“ This  evening,”  said  George,  64 1 shall  fight  him  for 
the  first  time.  If  I fight  him  once  only  I shall  defeat  him 
forever.  Villain!  Scoundrel!”  He  meant  Mavis,  not 
the  devil.  “ If  it  had  not  been  for  you  I should  have 
fought  him  on  the  voyage  five  years  ago.  But  for  you!” 

66  If  it  had  not  been  for  me  you  \yould  be  lying  dead  at 
the  bottom  of  the  sea.  Fight  him,  indeed!  You  fight 
him!” 

“ And  you  have  made  me  draw  a check  for  five  thou- 
sand.” Something  caught  him  in  the  throat.  “ You  are 
a forger  and  a thief.  I shall  go  and  see  my  agents  and 
warn  them  for  the  future.” 

“ No,  you  won't,”  said  Mavis.  “ Because  if  you  do,  1 
shall  leave  you.  And  what  will  you  do  then?  Five  thou- 
sand? Well,  if  you  like  to  make  me  presents  while  you 
are  half  drunk  it's  your  lookout.  Little  enough,  too, 
considering  what  I've  done  for  you.  Dragged  all  round 
the  world;  made  to  live  in  this  hole  all  alone;  five  good 
years  thrown  away  and  a good  place  given  up.  And  you 
kept  all  the  time  respectable  so  that  not  a soul  suspects, 
and  you  with  a quarter  of  a million  of  your  own.  To 
grudge  a paltry  check  like  that.  Why,  it  is  starvation. 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  You  will  be,  too, 
in  half  an  hour.  And  I shouldn't  wonder  if  you  didn't — ” 

He  paused  and  grinned  and  turned  to  his  occupation, 
which  was  that  of  arranging  the  drink  as  if  for  a dozen 
men.  First  he  pulled  the  corks  from  two  bottles  of 
whisky;  then  from  half  a dozen  bottles  of  seltzer.  Then 


144 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


he  mixed  the  whisky  and  the  seltzer  in  half  a dozen  great 
tumblers,  with  an  ostentatious  and  even  enthusiastic  gur- 
gling. And  at  the  sound  of  the  flowing  drink,  the  glou- 
glou  of  the  whisky  and  the  fizzing  of  the  sparkling  seltzer, 
George,  who  had  assumed  the  attitude  of  the  valiant  sol- 
dier, such  as,  with  Horatius,  kept  the  bridge,  trembled  in 
his  knees,  and  over  his  face — set  to  sternness  such  as  the 
face  of  him  who  leads  a forlorn  hope — there  stole  a weak- 
ening, visible  and  irresistible.  There  would  be  no  fight 
after  all,  Nettie  observed.  And  again  she  thought  of 
rushing  into  the  room  to  stop  him  even  at  the  last  mo- 
ment. 

Too  late.  With  a groan  George  sunk  into  the  chair  set 
for  him.  He  was  trembling  and  shaking  in  every  limb; 
the  room  shook  with  his  trembling;  the  drops  stood  upon 
his  forehead;  his  cheek  was  pale  with  longing;  his  eyes 
were  fierce  with  desire;  his  lips  shook  with  yearning.  He 
hesitated  no  longer;  he  stretched  forth  his  hand  and  seized 
one  of  the  flowing  glasses. 

And  Nettie  understood  the  reason  why  he  had  business 
in  Boston.  She  understood  with  a sinking  heart.  This 
man  her  husband?  This  man?  Oh!  the  pity  and  the 
shame  of  it!  She  looked  as  if  she  could  have  wept  and 
cried  aloud,  but  wonder  and  amazement  kept  her  still. 
He  drained  the  glass.  Mavis  gave  him  another — and  an- 
other. He  tossed  them  down  his  throat  as  if  he  could  not 
drink  quickly  enough;  he  seized  the  bottle  and  drank  the 
raw  spirit;  then  he  took  another  tumbler  and  drank  that. 
He  drank  in  great  gulps;  he  drank  without  stopping.  He 
was  insatiable. 

Good  heavens!  And  the  man  had  been  her  companion 
for  three  years,  always  gentle,  always  kind,  always  tem- 
perate. Now  she  understood  why  he  had  fled  from  his 
own  people. 

The  man  Mavis  sat  at  the  table  looking  on.  Nettie  ob- 
served that  he  showed  the  utmost  zeal  in  keeping  up  the 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


145 


spirit  of  the  thing,  opening  bottles  of  seltzer,  pouring  out 
water,  making  the  tumblers  fly  as  if  they  were  both  en- 
gaged in  the  merriest,  maddest,  most  frolicsome  feast  ever 
devised. 

At  last  George  set  down  the  bottle  empty.  A whole 
bottle  of  whisky  in  a quarter  of  an  hour!  And  yet  he 
lived.  Now  Nettie  understood  why  he  was  so  shy  of  other 
men.  He  was  ashamed;  in  his  sober  time  he  remembered 
this  time  of  orgy  and  was  ashamed.  He  was  not  fit  to  asso- 
ciate with  men  who  command  themselves.  Yet,  she  re- 
membered he  had  thought  himself  fit  to  associate  with  her 
friends  and  herself. 

He  lay  back  in  his  chair  smiling  benevolently.  He  was 
at  rest.  Surrender  was  followed  by  peace.  It  generally 

is.  When  the  enemy  has  got  all  he  wants  he  is  ready  to 
make  peace.  George  looked  round  him  peaceful  and 
happy.  Never  before  had  his  wife  seen  on  his  face  that 
look  of  universal  benevolence. 

His  eyes  fell  upon  Mavis.  “You  are  my  benefactor,” 
he  said.  “ Mavis,  you  are  more  than  a servant — you  are 
a fond  and  faithful  friend.”  He  did  not  speak  thickly  or 
in  the  least  like  a man  under  the  influence  of  drink. 
“ You  are  more  than  a friend,  you  are  my  better  self — my 
other  half — my  better  half — the  half  which  protects  and 
provides” — he  laid  a fond  hand  upon  the  empty  bottle — 
“ provides  and  thinks  beforehand.  What  can  I do  for 
you,  dear  friend?  Is  it  money?  Can  money  repay  such 
devotion  as  yours?  No.  But  if  you  want  money — ” 

“ Why,”  said  Mavis,  “ money  is  always  useful,  and  Fm 
past  fifty,  and  here’s  your  check-book  and  a bit  of  note- 
paper  handy.  Since  you  will  have  it,  Fm  not  the  man  to 
say  nay.  We’ll  make  it  five  thousand  while  we’re  about 

it.  Five  thousand— not  a penny  more.  ” 

George  nodded  sweetly.  “Five  thousand,”  he  said. 
“ Very  good,  indeed;  five  thousand.  It  is  too  little.  But 
since  you  insist  on  taking  no  more — ” He  began  to  write. 


146  THE  DEMONIAC. 

He  wrote  quite  well  and  easily,  in  his  usual  handwriting. 
In  ten  minutes  he  would  be  past  the  power  of  writing. 
This  was  the  golden  moment  known  to  every  toper  when 
the  brain  seems — but  is  not — at  its  clearest  and  strongest. 
This  moment  past,  the  clouds  gather;  to  think  or  to  talk 
is  impossible;  nothing  remains  except  to  drink. 

44  I have  written,”  he  said.  44  1 don't  know  what  my 
lawyer  has  done  with  my  money,  whether  it  is  lying  at  the 
bank  or  whether  they  have  invested  it  somewhere.  I have 
drawn  a check  to  their  order  and  I have  written  a letter. 
Here  it  is: 

44  6 On  receipt  of  this  note  and  its  inclosure  please  pay 
to  the  account  of  Joseph  Mavis  at  the  Tottenham  branch 
of  the  Union  Bank  of  London  the  sum  of  five  thousand 
pounds. 

6 4 4 Yours  very  truly, 

44  4 George  Atheling.'  ” 

44  What  name  did  he  say?”  Nettie  asked.  44  George 
what?  Not  George  Humphrey.  He  believes  that  he  is 
rich,  and  he  has  signed  some  one  else's  name.  Oh,  it  is 
forgery!” 

“There,  my  dear  friend,”  George  continued.  44  It  is 
some  comfort  to  me  that  though  I must  fly  from  my 
friends  and  hide  my  head  I have  got  you  to  fall  back 
upon.” 

44  Oh,  you've  got  me  fast  enough.”  He  took  a black 
letter-case  from  his  pocket  and  carefully  placed  in  it  the 
letter  and  the  check. 

44  When  I came  here,”  George  went  on,  44 1 thought 
that  among  those  little  city  clerks  and  people  of  that  sort 
nobody  would  care  what  anybody  did.  I was  wrong. 
They  care  more  down  here  than  they  do  up  above.  They 
think  more  of  behavior  and  conduct,  not  less,  these  worthy 
people.  I would  rather  that  Nellie  Thanet  found  me  out 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


147 


than  my  own  wife — much  rather.  1 should  be  less 
ashamed.” 

“Oh,  my  love,  George,”  the  wife  murmured,  “and 
now  she  does  know.” 

“ That’s  all  right,  then,”  the  man  replied  without  much 
sympathy.  “ You  must  be  getting  dry  by  this  time,  I 
should  say.  Let’s  begin  again.  Let’s  have  a night  of  it. 
Lord,  I’m  most  as  thirsty  as  you.  Ha!” 

He  began  in  his  turn  to  drink,  not  with  the  mad  greedi- 
ness of  his  companion,  but  with  a steady  purpose,  as  if  re- 
solved to  make  up  for  lost  time.  As  he  drank  his  pale 
cheeks  became  paler,  but  he  lifted  his  eyes — they  were 
such  bad  eyes,  so  full  of  evil,  that  Nettie  understood  now 
why  she  hated  the  sight  of  the  man.  Yet  she  had  never 
before  seen  those  eyes. 

Then  George,  stimulated  by  the  example  before  him, 
began  again. 

When  Nettie  presently,  trembling  and  horrified,  came 
forth  from  her  hiding-place,  both  men  were  vulgarly  and 
commonly  drunk.  No  coal-heaver  could  be  more  drunk, 
short  of  the  comatose  state.  They  were  laughing  stupidly 
in  each  other’s  face;  they  bawled  snatches  of  song,  but 
they  were  too  drunk  to  remember  more  bars  of  the  air  or 
of  the  words;  they  banged  each  other  on  the  shoulders  with 
their  fists;  they  pawed  each  other;  they  addressed  each 
other  by  terms  of  endearment. 

The  sight  was  terrifying  and  humiliating.  Nettie  could 
look  on  no  longer.  She  went  away.  She  walked  through 
the  dark  garden  into  the  dark  lane  and  made  her  way  to 
the  road  where  ran  the  trams.  It  was  now,  though  she 
had  seen  so  much,  no  more  than  eleven  o’clock. 

As  the  tram-car  rolled  along  she  heard  not  the  talk  of 
the  people  round  her  or  the  carts  in  the  road  or  anything. 
Her  ears  were  full  of  the  drunken  singing  of  the  man 
whom  she  had  worshiped  as  the  best  and  noblest  of  God’s 
creatures. 


148 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

HE  IS  FOUND. 

When  one  has  discovered  a great  secret,  when  one  has 
a great  burden  laid  on  the  unwilling  shoulders,  when  there 
is  a great  grief,  when  there  is  a great  terror  to  face — needs 
must  that  the  trouble  is  imparted  to  some  other  person 
even  if  it  can  not  be  shifted  or  shared.  Only  to  tell  it 
brings  relief. 

The  case  was  quite  beyond  her  own  peopled  power  of 
advice.  That  Nettie  understood  very  well.  Besides,  they 
must  not  know.  She  was  ashamed.  They  must  never 
find  out  if  the  thing  could  be  concealed. 

She  could  think  of  no  one  to  advise  her  except  her  old 
friend,  John  Carew. 

In  the  morning  she  went  to  his  chambers,  and  fortu- 
nately found  him  at  home. 

Then  she  sat  down  and  told  her  whole  story  from  the 
very  beginning.  She  had  a patient  listener,  though  it  was 
a long  story  and  contained,  before  the  point  was  reached, 
as  many  episodes,  digressions  and  explanations  as  an 
eighteenth-century  novel.  Like  most  women— the  thing 
is  illustrated  by  manylady  novelists — she  wanted  the  whole 
story  to  be  told  so  that  nothing  could  be  left  to  the  imag- 
ination. It  therefore  lost  in  dramatic  force  what  it  gained 
in  completeness.  The  narrator  went  right  back  to  the 
days  when  she  was  in  the  post-office  and  to  the  beginning 
of  her  acquaintance  with  George.  It  began,  in  fact,  with 
a shilling’s  worth  of  postage  stamps.  From  what  small 
beginnings  rise  the  greatest  events.  She  told,  with  a 
minuteness  that  gave  rise  to  forebodings  of  terror  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  climax,  every  detail  of  her  story;  how  she 
was  taken  with  him  from  the  first  because  he  was  such  a 
great,  handsome  man  and  had  such  lovely  manners,  and 


THE  HEM  OKI  AC. 


149 


talked  not  a bit  like  the  young  clerks  who  had  come  court- 
ing her,  but  like  a beautiful  book,  and  always  so  gentle 
and  so  considerate,  as  if  he  couldn't  bear  to  see  her  do  the 
least  thing  or  be  put  out  by  the  least  worry;  how  her 
father  set  his  face  against  it,  and  mother,  too,  because  he 
was  only  a journalist;  how  her  brother  Horatio  declared 
that  he  for  one  was  not  going  to  associate  with  a penny-a- 
liner;  how  her  sister  continually  wanted  to  know  who  were 
her  fine  lover's  friends  and  where  his  people  lived.  How 
they  were  married  one  morning  at  a registrar’s  office  with- 
out the  knowledge  of  anybody;  how  she  then  went  home 
and  told  what  had  happened,  and  if  they  liked  she  would 
stay  at  home  and  go  to  church,  if  they  didn't  like  she 
would  go  off  with  her  husband  there  and  then,  and  how, 
for  the  sake  of  respectability,  they  gave  in  and  she  did  go 
to  church  and  was  properly  given  away,  but  they  never 
really  liked  her  husband. 

How,  further,  he  was  the  best  and  kindest  of  husbands, 
and  she  had  known  nothing  but  goodness  from  him  for 
three  years-  and  here  she  wept,  for  she  was  broken- 
hearted. 

“ You  will  tell  me  what  follows  presently,  Nettie,"  said 
John  Carew.  “ Best  a little  and  recover  yourself." 

“ No,  1 must  go  on.  You  know  that  he  has  what  he 
calls  business  at  Boston  every  two  months.  A man  comes 
to  fetch  him — it's  always  in  the  evening— and  they  go  off 
together.  He's  a horrid  man.  He  looks  on  the  ground, 
he's, got  swollen  cheeks,  he  dresses  in  black  like  an  under- 
taker. " 

“ 1 have  heard  of  the  mysterious  business  at  Boston." 

“ It  isn't  mysterious  any  longer.  Now  I know  all  about 
it.  And  this  is  what  I've  come  to  tell  you  about — And 
oh!  John,  1 am  the  most  miserable  woman  in  the  world." 

64  Don't  say  that,  Nettie.  Tell  me  all,  and  we  will  see 
what  can  be  done.  There  isn't — there  isn't — another 
woman  in  the  case?" 


150 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


“ John!  can  you  ask  such  a question?  As  if  my  George 
was  capable — ” 

“No,  no,  of  course  not.  But  go  on — tell  me  all.” 

“ Last  night  the  man  came  again.  Well,  we’d  been  ex- 
pecting his  visit,  and  George,  poor  dear,  was  very  low. 
However,  he  went  upstairs,  put  his  things  together,  and 
went  off  looking  more  miserable  than  ever  I had  seen  him. 
When  he  was  gone  1 ran  up  to  tidy  the  room  after  him, 
which  he’d  left  in  the  most  horrid  mess.  I found,  tum- 
bled down  behind  the  door,  an  old  overcoat,  which  1 
thought,  as  George  never  wears  it,  I would  take  away  and 
put  up  in  the  next  parcel  to  be  sold.  Well,  in  the  pocket 
I found  a letter.” 

“ A letter — and  the  letter  contained  a secret?” 

“ It  was  a letter  not  addressed  to  George,  but  written  to 
some  lady,  in  his  handwriting.  It  was  in  an  envelope 
gummed  and  stamped  ready  to  be  posted;  and  the  en- 
velope was  brown  with  age,  so  that  I knew  it  must  be  a 
letter  written  a long  time  ago  and  forgotten.” 

“Well?” 

“ 1 was  jealous,-  John.  I won’t  deny  that  I was  jealous. 
But  I am  not  jealous  any  longer.  Why  shouldn’t  he  be 
engaged  before  he  met  me?  Why,  1 was  engaged  before 
he  met  me — twice;  I was  engaged  and  broken  off  each 
time.  That’s  nothing.  I read  the  letter,  and  oh,  John, 
it  told  the  whole  dreadful  truth  about  the  business  in  Bos- 
ton.” 

“Oh!  The  dreadful  truth,  and  not  a woman  in  it?  Net- 
tie,” he  became  very  serious,  “ not — not  crime?” 

“ John!  Crime?  With  my  George,  my  husband?” 

“ Oh,”  he  sighed  with  relief,  “ not  crime — not  another 
woman.  Do  you  know,  I think  it  can  not  be  so  very  ter- 
rible.” 

“ You  think  so— well?  But  you  shall  just  read  the  let- 
ter. It  is  addressed  to  a lady — a Miss  Thanet — Elinor 
Thanet — ” 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


151 


44  What  f 3 John  Carew  bounded  out  of  his  chair. 
44  Elinor  Thanet?  Good  heavens!  Elinor  Thanet!  What 
a blind  idiot  1 have  been — blind  and  deaf  and  stupid. 
Why,  1 ought  to  have  guessed!  Nettie,  1 know  who  your 
husband  is!  He  is  not  George  Humphrey  at  all.  If  Elinor 
had  only  once  described  him  to  me — if  she  had  told  me 
that  he  was  big  and  blue-eyed  1 should  have  guessed  long 
ago.  Good  heavens!  Nettie,  your  husband  is  George 
Atheling,  who  has  disappeared  for  five  years.  ” 

44  He  is  my  George— my  husband,”  cried  his  wife,  jeal- 
ously. 

44  Of  course.  Your  husband.  And  I remember.  Be- 
sides, he  must  be  the  same  Atheling  who  went  down  just 
before  1 went  up.  I found  his  photograph.  Now  1 re- 
member why  his  face  was  familiar  to  me.  Stay,  Fve  got 
it  somewhere.”  He  began  to  search  through  some  papers 
in  a drawer.  44 1 know  I have  it  still.  It  is  here  some- 
where. Ah!  Here  it  is.  Before  he  grew  that  great  beard. 
Is  this  your  husband,  Nettie?” 

44  Yes;  this  is  George.  He  is  younger,  and  he  has  no 
beard.  But  George,  most  certainly  George  Humphrey, 
my  husband.  ” 

44  George  Atheling,  1 say.” 

44  Last  night  when  he  was  writing  he  used  that  name. 
I did  not  understand  at  the  time  why.  What  does  it 
mean,  John?  Oh,  is  this  a new  trouble?” 

44 1 think  not.  Let  me  read  the  letter,  however.” 

He  read  the  letter  slowly,  folded  it  up  and  laid  it  on  the 
table. 

Just  then  a telegram  arrived. 

44  It  is  from  Miss  Thanet  herself,”  said  John.  44  She 
has  heard  from  George.  Why,  I consulted  him  about 
finding  himself.  He  must  have  gone  straight  and  written 
to  her.  She  says,  4 1 have  heard  from  him;  he  is  living 
and  well;  come  to  advise  me/  I actually  consulted 
George  Humphrey  about  finding  George  Atheling,  and  he 


152 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


advised  me  to  stop  the  search  after  him.  Therefore,  he 
knew  that  we  were  looking  for  him.  He  advised  me  not 
to  advertise.  But  the  advice  came  too  late.  Nettie,  this 
is  a terrible  thing  for  you  to  learn.  You  will  want  all 
your  courage.  You  believe  that  this  business  at  Boston  is 
nothing  more  than — what  he  indicates  in  these  two  let- 
ters.” 

“ I have  not  told  you  all.” 

She  told  the  whole  story,  as  you  have  heard  it,  sparing 
no  detail. 

“ And  now,  John,  what  am  1 to  do?”  she  concluded. 
“ Never  mind  about  Miss  Thanet.  Think  of  me  and  my 
poor  children.” 

“ Yes,  Nettie,  Elinor  Thanet  must  come  after  you. 
The  man,  1 should  think,  encourages  his  master  for  his 
own  purposes.  You  say  that  he  gave  him  five  thousand 
pounds  last  night?  Why,  two  months  ago  he  gave  him 
the  same  sum.” 

“ My  husband  hasn't  got  one  hundred  pounds  in  the 
world.” 

“ Nettie,  there  is  another  little  secret  for  you.  Your 
husband  is  not  a poor  journalist.  He  is  a rich  man — a 
very  rich  man.  1 do  not  know  how  rich.  He  has  several 
thousand  a year.” 

“Oh!  no.  It  can't  be.” 

“ It  certainly  is  so.  He  hasn't  made  away  with  his  fort- 
une. The  check  of  five  thousand  pounds  is  the  only  check 
that  he  has  drawn  for  three  years.” 

“ Rich?  Then  my  boys— oh!  John — my  boys — ” 

“ Will  be  rich  as  well.  Nettie,  you  have  found  out  a 
terrible  secret.  But  you  have  also  found  a secret  which 
may  bring  consolation  and  even  help.” 

“ What  am  I to  do,  John?  Oh!  what  am  1 to  do?  For 
if  he  finds  out  that  I know  all  he  will  be  ashamed;  he  will 
run  away  and  desert  me.  And  if  he  goes  away  again  on 
business  to  Boston  I shall  die  of  pity  and  anxiety  for  him. 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


153 


Oh!  he  thinks  I should  despise  him.  I,  who  have  never 
found  him  anything  but  full  of  love!  Oh,  John,  I am  full 
of  pity  for  him.  1 was  full  of  rage  when  I went  after 
him.  But  it  was  so  dreadful  to  think  of  him  as  I saw  him 
last  night — so  fallen — so  degraded— my  George!” 

“ Let  me  try  to  do  something  for  you.  Leave  him  to 
me — I have  at  least  an  idea.  He  can’t  run  away  this 
morning;  I am  quite  sure.  Leave  him  to  me.” 

44  But,  John,  don’t  tell  him  that  I know.” 

44 1 never  will.  Go,  now,  Nettie.  Go  with  some  relief 
to  your  poor  heart.  You  know  the  worst.  Now,  go  and 
let  me  think.” 

The  cottage  at  Tottenham  on  this  splendid  summer 
morning,  surrounded  by  flowers  and  trees  covered  with 
creepers,  looked  like  a bridal  bower — a sweet,  sacred  spot 
reserved  for  honey-moons,  the  rest  of  a newly  married 
pair.  It  was  perfectly  quiet.  Except  for  a thrush  or  a 
blackbird  there  was  hardly  any  sound  in  the  air.  You 
could  hear  the  hum  of  the  countless  insects  about  the 
flower  beds,  and  though  the  lawn  was  neglected  and  the 
grass  long  and  the  flowers  were  mixed  with  weeds,  the 
place  looked  beautiful  and  inviting.  Bound  the  house  was 
a brick  wall  of  great  ancientness,  the  top  covered  with 
long  grasses  and  wall  flowers.  A policeman  stood  outside 
the  gate  gazing  upon  this  scrap  or  remnant  of  Eden. 

About  eleven  o’clock  a carriage  and  pair  came  down  the 
lane  and  stopped  before  the  gate.  A gentleman  got  out, 
followed  by  two  cominissionnaires,  stalwart,  well  set  up 
men.  The  policeman  watched  him  curiously. 

“ 1 want,”  said  the  gentleman,  who  was  John  Carew, 
44  to  find  a house  tenanted  by  one  Mavis.” 

The  policeman  smiled  mysteriously  and  pointed  within. 

44  This  is  Mr.  Mavis’s  house?” 

The  policeman  smiled  again  and  pointed  within. 

44  Well,  do  you  know  if  he’s  within  at  this  moment?” 


154 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


“ Oh,  yes;  he’s  within.  You’ll  find  him.  The  other 
gentleman  is  there,  too.” 

“ The  other  gentleman  who  comes  here  to  stay  a day  or 
two.  1 have  come,  in  fact,  for  him.” 

“ Well,  you’ll  find  them  there,  but — ” 

“You  mean  that  it  will  be  difficult  to  get  speech  of 
them — is  that  it?  I know  all  about  it,  you  see.” 

“Last  night,”  said  the  policeman,  “I  heard  them. 
They’re  a cheerful  pair  when  they  do  get  together.  1 sus- 
pected something,  so  1 went  in.  The  door  was  open  and  a 
window  was  wide  open.  I shut  the  door,  but  the  window 
I left  open.  A s for  making  them  understand  anything — 
there.  You  can  let  yourself  in  by  getting  through  the 
window,  if  you  like.  ” 

John  Carew  followed  his  guidance  and  entered  by  that 
method. 

Lying  on  a sofa,  breathing  stertorously,  his  cheeks 
swollen  and  red,  lay  George  Humphrey.  He  was  evident- 
ly in  a deep  drunken  sleep,  from  which  he  would  not 
waken  for  some  hours.  On  the  floor  lay  the  other  man. 
Mavis,  also  sound  asleep  and  in  a similar  condition. 

John  opened  the  front  door  to  admit  his  commission- 
naires.  They  looked  round  the  house.  Every  room,  ex- 
cept one  bedroom,  was  empty  and  unfurnished.  If  this 
man  lived  in  the  house  it  must  have  been  a most  uncom- 
fortable way  of  living.  Then  he  returned  to  the  first 
room.  On  the  table  he  saw  a black  leather  case.  He  re- 
membered the  story  of  the  letter  and  the  check.  “ At  all 
events,”  he  said,  “if  George  wants  to  give  him  this 
money,  which  I doubt,  he  shall  give  it  when  he  is  sober. 
He  opened  the  case  and  took  out  the  papers.  “ When  you 
wake  up,  my  honest  fellow,”  he  addressed  the  sleeping 
servant,  “ you  will  remember  the  check  and  you  will 
search  for  it,  and  you  will  not  find  it.  Then  will  your 
heart  sink  like  lead,  and  your  amazement  shall  make  your 
knees  to  totter,  and  what  with  hot  coppers  and  the  disap- 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


155 


pointment  and  the  anxiety  about  the  check  and  the  disap- 
pearance of  your  master,  your  condition  will  be  very  be- 
wildering and  uncomfortable.” 

“ Poor  beast!”  He  turned  to  the  contemplation  of 
George.  “ This  is  how  we  meet.  This  is  the  man  whose 
face  so  filled  me  with  admiration  six  years  ago.  I remem- 
ber him  now.  This  is  the  reason  why  he  took  his  name 
off  the  books.  Poor  wretch!  What  an  awful  affliction! 
He  is  the  slave  of  the  ex-gyp — the  slave  of  this  creature.” 
He  turned  the  prostrate  body  over  with  his  foot. 

Then  by  the  aid  of  the  two  stout  commissionnaires  he 
carried  the  sleeping  man,  George  Atheling,  out  of  the  cot- 
tage, placed  him  in  the  carriage,  and  drove  away. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  MOUTH  OF  HELL. 

George  returned  to  consciousness  in  the  afternoon, 
about  three  o’clock.  From  long  experience,  he  knew  per- 
fectly well  what  had  happened.  It  was  the  day  after  the 
first  orgy.  He  was  in  the  cottage  lying  on  the  sofa.  He 
knew  this  without  opening  his  eyes.  He  had  got  through 
the  first  of  the  two  attacks.  The  second  would  seize  him 
presently,  but  not  for  a few  hours,  not  till  he  had  partly 
recovered  from  the  first.  The  second  attack  was  always 
fiercer,  but  more  easily  and  quickly  subdued  by  him  who 
made  haste  to  surrender.  He  knew  that  if  he  moved  his 
head  it  would  be  as  heavy  as  lead;  he  knew  also  that  if  he 
tried  to  get  up  he  should  stagger  and  fall.  Therefore  he 
lay  quite  still,  his  eyes  closed.  He  grew  more  wakeful. 
He  heard  voices— the  voices  of  men  talking  somewhere — 
one  voice  that  he  knew  very  well.  The  sound  of  voices, 
even  where  there  are  no  voices,  does  not  greatly  alarm  a 
man  in  this  condition  and  with  those  experiences.  Some- 
times George  would  see  shapes — figures — whole  regiments 


156 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


and  armies  of  creatures  with  faces  of  the  most  frightful 
ugliness.  Voices  are  not  half  so  bad  as  faces.  Voices  can 
shout  and  swear  and  threaten,  but  they  do  not  terrify  like 
faces.  Besides,  these  voices  were  only  murmurs — low  and 
peaceful  murmurs;  no  harm  in  these  voices  at  all.  Better 
these  voices  than  the  hateful  voice  of  Mavis. 

He  became  more  wakeful  still.  Another  illusion.  It 
seemed  now  as  if  his  head  were  reposed  on  a soft  pillow 
and  his  limbs  on  a spring  mattress;  as  if  his  hand  were 
lapped  in  soft  sheets  and  that  blankets  were  laid  upon  him; 
in  a word,  it  seemed  as  if  he  was  in  bed.  Everybody 
knows  exactly  how  it  feels  to  be  in  bed.  Strange  mocking 
of  his  senses.  Why,  he  was  on  the  hard  horsehair  sofa  at 
the  cottage,  and  most  likely  Mavis  was  lying  drunk  on  the 
floor,  and  it  was  probably  the  middle  of  the  night.  Then 
a door  opened  and  the  voices  became  audible.  And  then 
he  heard  a footstep  in  the  room  and  he  opened  his  eyes. 

He  was  not  at  the  cottage  at  all.  He  was  in  a bedroom 
— a large  bedroom  properly  furnished;  not  his  own  bed- 
room in  the  Daffodil  Road,  which  was  of  small  dimensions, 
but  a full-sized  bedroom.  What  could  this  mean?  Chris- 
topher Sly  himself  was  not  more  surprised,  nor  that  other 
honest  toper  whose  head  was  cut  off  by  the  benevolent 
Peter,  also  styled  the  Great,  so  that  he  might  awake  from 
his  drunken  sleep  to  find  himself  in  Paradise.  No  death 
was  ever  devised  more  happy.  George  half  turned  his 
head.  The  owner  of  the  footstep  he  observed  was  none 
other  than  John  Carew.  And  he  wondered  whether  this 
also  was  illusion. 

“So/'  he  said,  at  the  bedside,  “ you  are  awake  at  last, 
are  you?” 

“ Where  am  I?” 

“ In  my  rooms.” 

“Oh!”  He  closed  his  eyes  again  in  order  to  fix  his 
mind  on  this  new  phenomenon.  Then  he  opened  them 
once  more.  “ How  came  I here?” 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


157 


44  I brought  you.” 

44  Oh!”  Once  more  he  closed  his  eyes.  This  was  all  a 
dream — he  was  in  dream  and  ghost-land.  A more  com- 
plicated dream  than  is  commonly  encountered,  but  still 
only  a dream.  There  could  be  no  John  Carew — no  bed- 
no  chamber  at  all — only  the  sofa  and  the  cottage. 

44 1 brought  you  here,  man — I brought  you  in  a car- 
riage. I found  out  where  you  were  lying  and  I went  there 
on  purpose  to  bring  you  back.  Don’t  think  you  are 
dreaming.  This  part  of  your  thoughts,  at  least,  is  not 
delirium  tremens.  I found  you  lying  on  a sofa  in  your 
cottage  as  drunk  as  a log  and  as  senseless.  1 had  you  car- 
ried to  the  carriage  and  brought  j’ou  away.  ” 

44  How  did  you  find  me?” 

44  That  is  my  secret.  Well,  this  is  what  you  call  going 
to  Boston  on  business.  Noble  business!” 

George  shut  his  eyes  again.  44  Every  man,”  he  said, 
feebly,  44  is  master  of  his  own  actions,  1 suppose.” 

44  If  you  were  master  of  yours,  you  would  not  be  lying 
here  in  this  condition.  Come,  you  know  it.’ 

George  made  no  reply. 

“Your  own  master!”  repeated  John  Carew.  44  You 
are  a slave,  a miserable  slave.  You  are  a coward — you 
run  away  from  a bogy — ” 

44 1 wish  you  had  such  a bogy  after  you — ” 

44 1 know  exactly  what  happens  to  you.  Every  two 
months  you  are  assailed  by  a craving  for  drink.  It  is  a 
very  well-known  disease  in  one  form  or  the  other.  Thou- 
sands of  men  have  it.  The  only  way  to  meet  it  is  to  fight 
it.  You  don’t  fight  it.  You  give  in  at  once.  You  go 
away  with  this  wretched  creature  of  yours,  who  encourages 
you  for  purposes  of  his  own,  and  you  drink  like  a hog  with 
him  till  the  fit  passes  away.” 

44  All  this,”  said  George,  44  is  quite  true.  I assure  you, 
however,  that  it  is  not  the  smallest  use  to  say  it,  unless 
for  the  relief  of  your  conscience,” 


158 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


44  When  the  fit  passes,  you  get  up,  shake  off  the  conse- 
quences, and  go  home.” 

44  That  is  also  true.  You  may  add  that  the  chief  aim  of 
my  life  is  to  keep  my  wife,  and  hereafter  my  children, 
from  any  knowledge  of  this  thing.  You  have  found  me 
out.  Remember,  if  you  are  a friend  of  hers,  to  keep  the 
secret  from  her.” 

44  Very  well.  Some  day — perhaps  when  your  boys  have 
arrived  at  a time- of  life  which  will  enable  them  to  feel  the 
degradation — you  will  be  exposed;  you  will  be  caught  and 
detected.  You  are  certain  to  be  found  out.  Your  serv- 
ant will  grow  tired  of  you.  He  is  already  devising  a plan 
for  making  himself  independent  of  you.  He  has  stolen 
five  thousand  pounds  of  you.  That  you  know  already,  be- 
cause you  heard  it  from  me.  Last  night  he  made  another 
attempt.  He  made  you  write  an  order  on  your  agents  for 
another  five  thousand  pounds.” 

44  No!  no!”  cried  George.  44  He  had  not  the  impu- 
dence— ” 

44  He  had  indeed.  I am  only  surprised,  considering  all 
things,  that  he  did  not  make  it  fifty  thousand  while  he 
was  about  it.  But  such  a man  can  not  soar  very  high  in 
robbery.  To  him  ten  thousand  pounds  seems  a vast  sum 
of  money.  My  opinion  is  that  in  robbing  you  of  these 
sums  his  intention  is  to  leave  you  and  go  away.  He  must 
have  made  a good  deal  out  of  you  in  the  five  years.  Have 
you  any  idea  what  he  has  cost  you?” 

44  Is  this  a time  for  arithmetic?  Well,  when  I started 
journalist  I took  a thousand  pounds  with  me — something 
to  fall  back  upon.  1 haven't  spent  any  of  it  on  myself.” 

44  It  is  all  gone,  I suppose?” 

44 1 believe  it  has  all  gone  in  three  years.” 

44  Then,  of  course,  he  thinks  that  when  he  can  get  no 
more  out  of  you,  it  will  be  time  to  leave  you.  Well,  then, 
when  he  is  gone,  what  will  you  do  next?” 

44 1 don’t  know — make  away  with  myself,” 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


159 


“ Oh,  no,  you  won't  do  that.  Men  like  you  never  do. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  better  for  your  children  if  you  would. 
You  will  look  out  for  another  attendant.  The  thing  will 
get  whispered  and  will  so  become  known.  Why,  I know 
it  already — other  people  know  it.  I have  learned  this 
secret  of  yours,  and  with  it  the  whole  reason  of  your  life — 
your  flight  and  your  disappearance. " 

44  What  do  you  know  about  my  life?" 

44  I will  tell  you  presently.  For  the  moment,  remember 
that  there  is  no  Mavis  here.  I do  not  think  you  will  ever 
see  the  respectable  Mavis  any  more.  At  least  1 hope  you 
will  not." 

George  sat  up  in  bed,  resolution  in  his  face.  44  Will  you 
go  away?  1 am  going  to  get  up  and  dress." 

44  What  shall  you  do  when  you  are  dressed?" 

44  I shall  go  back  to  the  cottage." 

64  Very  well,  then.  You  can't  dress,  you  see,  because  I 
have  had  all  your  clothes  taken  away.  And  you  can't 
wear  mine  because  you  are  six  feet  three  and  1 am  five  feet 
nine.  Eh?" 

To  this  George  made  no  reply.  He  fell  back  on  the  pil- 
lows. Besides,  his  head  was  heavy.  He  could  not  get  up 
and  dress  even  if  he  had  the  wherewithal. 

64  Is  your  fit  gone  for  good — I mean,  for  the  present?" 

44  No." 

44  Will  there  be  another  attack?" 

44  Yes."  He  glared  at  his  captor,  looking  about  him  as 
if  for  some  clothes — any  clothes— in  which  he  could  get 
back  to  the  cottage. 

44  When  do  you  expect  it?" 

44  Not  till  this  evening.  It  may  come  any  moment,  but 
as  a rule  1 do  not  expect  it  until  the  evening  when  I have 
partly  recovered  from  the  first  attack." 

44  Oh,  1 am  glad — 1 am  very  glad— -that  you  are  going 
to  have  another  attack,  because  1 have  made  every  prepa- 
ration for  it.  You  shall  see  how  hospitable  I shall  be." 


160 


TIIE  DEMONIAC. 


44  If  your  preparations  do  not  include  whisky,”  said 
George,  calmly,  44  there  will  be  trouble.  I warn  you — I 
shall  have  the  strength  of  three  men.” 

44  So  I have  been  told;  I have  therefore  laid  in  a stock 
of  strong  men.  There  will  be  quite  as  many  of  them  as 
we  are  at  all  likely  to  require.  You  may  be  perfectly  easy 
on  that  point.  Whatever  trouble  may  result  from  the  ab- 
sence of  the  whisky,  be  assured  that  you  yourself  will  be 
subdued  and  held  down,  and,  if  necessary,  put  into  a strait 
waistcoat.  ” 

44  Oh,  you  don’t  know — you  don’t  know.” 

44  My  dear  fellow,  it  is  true  that  1 don’t  know.  Thank 
God  I do  not  know,  but  1 can  guess.  No  drink  at  all  ex- 
cept water,  and  for  companion  of  your  bedside  your  own 
wife.” 

44  My  wife?  My  wife?  No,  Carew — not  that.  You 
-have  not  been  so  inhuman.” 

44  Why  not?  Since  it  depends  wholly  on  yourself 
whether  you  will  conquer  this  weakness  or  not,  since  she  is 
not  supposed  to  know  what  is  the  matter — ” 

44  Oh!  You  have  not  told  her?” 

44  No,”  this  was  perfectly  true;  44 1 have  not  told  her. 
That,  my  friend,  I leave  to  you.  Nobody  shall  tell  her 
but  you.  She  will  sit  at  your  bedside.  When  the  attack 
begins  you  will  tell  her  what  it  is  if  you  can  not  fight  it. 
Then  the  strong  men  will  come  in  and  your  wife  will  go 
out.  And  in  the  morning  we  shall  know  what  to  do 
next.” 

George  lay  back  groaning.  44  This  is  sheer  cruelty.  It 
is  torture.  You  do  not  know — ” 

44  Since  torture  is  the  only  thing  that  will  cure,  let  us 
apply  torture  by  all  means.  Suppose  that  torture  had 
been  applied  by  yourself  five  years  ago.  It  would  have 
been  like  the  pricking  of  a pin  compared  with  the  pain  you 
will  feel  this  night.  Yet  you  must  bear  it.  Think  of  it  as 
of  the  flames  of  purgatory.  ” 


THE  DEM  OK  I AG. 


161 


He  shook  his  head  and  groaned  again. 

44  Come,  you  shall  have  a cup  of  tea.  Will  you  eat  any- 
thing?” 

44  Give  me  the  tea.” 

When  he  had  taken  the  tea  his  eyes  closed.  He  dropped 
off  to  sleep  again.  He  slept  for  two  hours.  It  was  half 
past  five  when  he  awoke. 

John  Carew  was  at  his  bedside  still. 

44  Come,”  he  said,  “ you  have  had  a refreshing  sleep. 
I have  got  some  beef- tea  and  toast  for  you.  Will  you  take 
that?” 

44  So,”  after  awhile,  44  do  you  feel  strong  enough  to  go 
on  with  our  talk?  I have  got  a great  deal  to  say — and 
perhaps  the  fit  will  seize  you  again.  ” 

44  No,  I think  not.  I feel  no  symptoms  of  it.” 

44  Partly  because  the  scoundrel  Mavis  is  not  with  you  to 
suggest  the  craving  and  to  pour  out  the  drink.  Now, 
then.  First  of  all,  1 know  who  you  are.  1 have  found 
that  out.  You  are  George  Atheling.  You  took  your 
name  off  the  books  of  your  college  at  the  end  of  your  sec- 
ond year  and  went  down  without  taking  your  degree. 
You  were  engaged  to  Elinor  Thanet  and  you  broke  off  the 
engagement;  you  separated  yourself  from  your  old  friends 
and  lived  alone;  you  went  on  a voyage;  you  came  home; 
you  then  dived  down  into  lower  depths  of  society;  you  be- 
came a journalist;  you  have  deserted  your  fortune  as  well 
as  your  friends;  you  live  on  your  earnings;  and  you  are 
married.  All  this  because  you  have  never  once  had  the 
courage  to  fight  this  bogy.” 

44 1 do  not  ask  how  you  found  out  all  this,”  George  re- 
plied. 44  Of  course  it  is  all  true.  Yet  do  not  tell  my 
wife.” 

44 1 think  she  may  know  something  of  this  already. 
You  may  find  out,  if  you  please,  what  she  does  know.” 

“ How  long  have  you  known  all  this?” 

44  Only  a few  hours.  I may  tell  you  that  I promised 
6 


162 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


Elinor  some  time  since  to  do  all  in  my  power  to  discover 
you.  She  will  not  be  happy  until  she  has  seen  you.” 

46 1 have  treated  her  very  badly.” 

44  You  certainly  have.  You  must  make  what  apologies 
and  excuses  you  can.  However,  nobody  else  knows,  and 
there  is  nothing  to  prevent  your  going  back  to  your  old 
friends  and  taking  up  your  old  station.” 

^ 44  Nothing?  There  is  always  the  same  thing.” 

44  We  shall  see  what  happens  to-night.  No  symptoms 
yet?” 

44  No,  not  yet.,  Man,  if  1 do  not  satisfy  this  devil  he 
will  rend  me  limb  from  limb.” 

44  Bogy!  He  threatens.  He  can  do  nothing.  Stand  up 
to  him— fight  him.  Now  listen,  Mr.  George  Atheling,  be- 
cause I am  going  to  speak  very  plainly  to  you.  The  time 
has  come  when  action  must  be  taken.  ” 

44  Go  on — I am  listening.  But  it  will  all  come  to  noth- 
ing. This  devil  is  more  crafty  than  you  think.” 

44  Is  he?  That  shall  be  seen.  Your  wife  will  presently 
come  to  nurse  you.  1 shall  have  a supply  ready  of  lemons 
• — apollinaris  water— coffee — tea — anything  you  may  want. 
We  shall  keep  watch— the  strong  men  and  I — by  turns  in 
the  next  room.  If  you  face  the  devil  like  a man  and  fight 
him  till  he  flies,  we  shall  do  nothing — you  will  be  alone 
with  your  wife.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  surrender  and 
begin  to  rave  and  to  rage  and  to  cry  for  the  drink  which 
you  will  not  get,  if  you  jump  out  of  bed  and  attempt  to 
search  for  drink  either  in  this  room  or  the  next,  you  will 
be  seized  by  the  strong  men  and  bound  and  tied  with  ropes 
such  as  even  Samson  could  not  snap.  1 assure  you  that 
my  men  are  very  strong  and  that  they  understand  this 
kind  of  work.  So  far  you  follow?” 

44  Yes,  1 follow.  You  will  drive  me  mad.” 

44  I am  coming  to  that.  Curious  that  you  should  an- 
ticipate my  thoughts.  When  you  are  tied  down  and  help- 
less—possibly,  as  you  say,  by  that  time  raving  mad— I 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


163 


shall  send  for  a doctor.  It  will  then  be  time  to  interfere 
for  the  sake  of  your  own  wife  and  children.  I shall  have 
you  treated  as  a madman  in  reality.  You  shall  be  re- 
moved to  an  asylum.” 

“ You  can  not,”  said  George.  “ No  doctor  would  sign 
the  certificate.  You  can  prove  that  I was  drunk,  not  that 
I was  mad.  It  is  very  good  bounce,  however.” 

66  Do  not  deceive  yourself.  Come,  you  are  a man  of 
sense.  Let  us  consider  the  facts  of  the  case.  ” 

“ No  facts  will  make  me  out  to  be  mad.” 

“ Let  us  see.  You  are  a man  of  wealth  and  position. 
You  abandon  both — why?  You  have  given  up  all  your 
friends  and  have  gone  to  live  alone,  among  people  of  a 
lower  class — why?  This  you  have  done,  not  from  philan- 
thropy or  religion  or  poverty  or  disgrace,  or  any  of  the 
ordinary  motives  that  make  men  do  such  things.  Not  at 
all.  Nor  have  you  done  it  in  order  to  give  a free  rein  to 
vicious  inclinations.  Not  in  the  least.  Why,  then?” 

“ Reason  enough,”  said  George,  grimly. 

4 ‘Not  at  all.  Because  if  there  was  a thing  to  be  con- 
cealed from  your  old  friends,  there  is  the  same  thing  to  be 
concealed  from  your  new  friends.  Act  of  a madman. 
You  have  gained  nothing  by  the  change.  There  was  no 
motive  for  it.  Next  you  become  a journalist.  Being  a 
man  of  learning  and  culture,  you  choose  to  live  on  the 
precarious  earnings  of  a local  journalist  reporter — penny- 
a-liner,  while  you  have  waiting  for  you  an  income  of  some 
thousand  pounds  a year.  Nay,  you  go  further  in  your 
madness.  You  marry  a girl  of  this  class — not  a disgrace- 
ful class,  quite  the  reverse,  but  not  a class  in  which  gen- 
tlewomen are  reared.  You  have  children  whose  rights  are 
your  own;  they  are  the  heirs  to  this  great  property.  Yet 
you  prefer  to  bring  them  up  as  the  children  of  a man  who 
is  happy  if  he  gets  three  hundred  a year.” 

“ Yet  that  does  not  make  me  mad.” 

“We  pass  over  the  Australian  fiction  and  the  false  name 


164 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


because  they  belong  to  the  situation.  Next,  you  can  be 
proved  to  be  in  the  power  of  a man  formerly  a gyp  at 
Cambridge  and  afterward  your  servant.  He  comes  at  cer- 
tain periods  and  drags  you  away  with  him  to  a cottage 
near  Tottenham,  where  together  you  conduct  disgraceful 
orgies  not  to  be  accounted  for  except  under  the  supposition 
of  madness.  And  you  reward  this  man  with  immense 
sums  of  money.  A week  ago  you  sent  him  five  thousand 
pounds,  and  last  night  another  five  thousand,  though  it  is 
not  certain  whether  he  will  secure  that  plunder.  If  it  is 
necessary  in  order  to  show  how  mad  you  are,  he  shall  have 
it.  For  what  consideration  did  you  give  that  man  ten 
thousand  pounds  in  one  week?  For  acting  as  a keeper  or 
attendant?  But  you  pay  him  for  that— you  give  him  his 
wages — and  he  has  got  in  three  years  a thousand  pounds 
out  of  you  for  alleged  expenses.  You  knew  that  he  cheat- 
ed you,  of  course?” 

George  groaned.  6 6 1 knew  he  was  a thief.  But  1 
could  do  nothing.” 

66  Putting  everything  together,  my  dear  boy,”  said  John 
Carew,  cheerfully,  “ I have  not  the  least  doubt  that  we 
shall  prove  you  to  be  as  mad  as  Nebuchadnezzar.  Your 
wife,”  he  went  on,  “ has  arrived.  She  is  in  the  other 
room.  I have  told  her  you  are  very  ill,  and  that  there  is 
every  prospect  of  a bad  night.  She  will  come  and  sit  by 
you.  She  will  talk  to  you.  Presently  you  will  perhaps 
fall  asleep.  When  you  wake  up  you  will  perhaps  get  the 
next  attack.  Say  to  yourself  that  whatever  you  do — 
whether  you  rage  and  roar,  whether  you  cry  and  beseech, 
or  whether  you  fight — it  all  comes  to  the  same  thing — you 
will  get  no  drink.  You  are  thinking  of  flight.  You  can 
not  very  well  get  to  Tottenham  from  South  Kensington  in 
a white  night-dress  with  no  money  and  my  strong  men  all 
running  after  you.  You  must  be  frightfully  mad  to  think 
of  such  a thing.  Don't  glare  at  me,  man.  You  are  now 
brought  face  to  face  with  your  devil,  for  the  first  time. 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


165 


You  are  obliged  to  fight  or  to  go  mad,  because  I verily  be- 
lieve, George  Atheling,  that  if  you  give  way  to  him  this 
time,  if  you  let  him  clutch  your  throat  once,  sinoe  there  is 
no  drink  to  satisfy  him,  you  will  truly  go  stark,  staring, 
raving  mad.  We  will  have  the  business  settled  once  for 
all.” 

The  big  man  tossed  his  arms  in  a kind  of  despair.  The 
net  was  about  him.  There  was  no  way  out  of  it.  He 
thought  of  the  voyage  and  of  that  knob  so  carefully  pre- 
pared for  him  by  the  best  of  servants.  Had  Mavis  been 
within  reach  he  would  have  offered  that  last  check  of  five 
thousand  pounds  for  drink;  for  he  saw  before  him  such  a 
time  as  Damien  expected  when  he  was  taken  forth  to  have 
his  flesh  wrenched  off  with  red-hot  pincers  and  to  be  torn 
to  pieces  by  wild  horses. 

66  Atheling,”  John  Carew  added,  earnestly,  “ this  may 
be  the  most  fateful  moment  in  your  life.  All  depends  now 
upon  your  courage.  Your  wife  will  be  with  you  to  keep 
up  your  resolution” — George  turned  his  face  to  the  wall 
to  hide  the  emotion  that  filled  his  eyes — 44  your  wife,  who 
has  believed  you  the  strongest  and  best  man  in  the  whole 
world.  Think  what  is  at  stake.  Her  life's  happiness, 
your  own  self-respect,  the  whole  future  of  your  children — 
all  depend  upon  your  courage  this  night.” 

44  You  do  not  know — you  do  not  know,”  George  repeat- 
ed. 44  The  thing  is  a devil — he  will  take  my  life.  He  will 
tear  me  to  pieces.  ” 

44  Not  he.  You  are  as  strong  as  a bull.  Put  forth  your 
strength.  You  are  worth  fifty  such  devils,  and  besides, 
you  won't  have  beside  you  the  other  devil — the  man  who 
chinks  the  glasses  and  pours  out  the  drink  and  eggs 
you  on.” 

44  How  do  you  know  that  he  does?” 

44 1 know  everything.  Now,  promise — you  will  fight 
him?” 


166 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


46 1 promise.  Only — I have  promised  before.  And  the 
devil  always  wins.” 

“ Then,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  George  Atheling,  if  the 
devil  wins  this  time,  you  shall  be  the  prize  show  of  the 
madhouse.  My  men  are  waiting  for  you  and  my  doctor 
will  be  ready  with  another  doctor  to  sign  the  certificate. 
Heaven  or  hell — whichever  you  choose — with  purgatory 
between.  Odd  that  you  can  get  into  hell  as  well  as  out  of 
it  through  purgatory.” 

John  Carew  went  away.  A minute  later  he  returned 
bringing  “Nettie  and  the  boy— the  little  George — the  two- 
year-old 

44  He  has  had  a bad  night,  Nettie,”  said  John,  44  and  he 
fears  another  bad  night.  I think  that  nothing  can  be 
done  for  him  but  to  watch  him  and  give  him  cooling 
things.  ” 

Nettie  bent  over  her  husband  and  kissed  him,  weeping. 

44  Here  is  your  boy.  Sit  up  and  play  with  him  a little* 
It  won’t  hurt  you.  Nay,”  said  John,  44  it  should  do  you 
good.  Here  is  a fine  little  laddie  for  you.  Worth  mak- 
ing a bit  of  a fight  for  the  sake  of  such  a lusty  little  chap 
as  this,  isn’t  it?”  The  boy  ran  laughing  over  the  bed  into 
his  father’s  arms.  44  What  a belief  a child  has  in  his  fa- 
ther!” said  John,  uttering  the  commonplace  as  if  it  were 
a perfectly  original  remark  never  before  heard  of — a dis- 
covery newly  made.  Yet  it  had  it’s  effect.  44  Now  this 
boy,”  he  went  on,  44  believes  that  his  father  can  do  no 
wrong;  that  his  father  is  strong  enough  to  conquer  the 
whole  world;  that  his  father  is  able  to  get  anything  or  be 
anything  that  he  wishes.  Fancy  the  disgust  of  such  a boy 
as  this  if  he  were  to  find  that  his  father  was  a coward,  a 
sneaking  poltroon,  afraid  to  face  a bogy!” 

44  John,”  said  Nettie,  44  please  not  to  say  such  things.” 

44 1 beg  your  pardon,  Nettie,  I was  speaking  generally. 
Well,  the  next  thing  is  what  we  should  give  this  man  by 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


167 


way  of  food.  It  is  now  getting  on  for  seven.  I think  he 
will  sleep  if  w@  give  him  food.  Will  you  rest  in  the  other 
room,  Nettie?  I will  watch  him  till  nightfall. " 

44  No,  John,  my  place  is  here. 5 ' She  sat  down  and  took 
George's  hands. 

John  Carew  went  out,  taking  the  child  with  him. 

Husband  and  wife  were  left  alone. 

Nettie  threw  her  arms  round  George's  neck. 

44  My  dear — my  dear,"  she  said,  44 1 must  not  hide  any- 
thing from  you.  Last  night  1 found  a letter  in  your 
pocket  addressed  to  a girl,  and  I was  jealous  and  opened 
it.  The  letter  was  five  years  old,  and  it  told  me — oh, 
George  l — it  told  your  secret.  Then  I thought  I would 
follow  and  drag  you  away  from  that  man.  And  1 took 
the  train  and  got  to  the  cottage  and  stood  outside  the  open 
window  and  saw — oh,  George! — God  help  us  both!— I saw 
all — 1 saw  all — oh,  my  husband! — oh,  my  dear — my  poor 
dear — I saw  all!" 

44  If  you  saw  what  was  done — if  you  saw  and  heard — 
Nettie,  I have  dreaded  this  discovery  ever  since  I met  you. 
1 need  make  no  confession  now  you  know  all  that  there 
is  to  tell.  You  have  found  out  all  that  there  was  to 
hide."  He  sighed  heavily.  Perhaps  it  was  a relief  that 
the  thing  was  known.  44  Nettie,"  he  said,  44  since  you 
know  so  much  you  had  better  know  the  whole.  My  name 
is  not  Humphrey  at  all — " 

44 1 know  that  too — John  Carew  told  me.  And  you  are 
rich.  And  now  1 know  why  you  talked  so  much  about 
riches  and  poverty.  But  talk  no  more,  dear.  Try  and 
rest. " 

44  As  for  forgiveness — " said  George. 

44  Oh!  Forgiveness— me  to  forgive?  Why,  dear,  if  you 
had  done  these  things  at  home  even,  there  would  be  no 
question  of  forgiveness.  It  is  not  the  man  that  I saw  last 
night  that  I love,  but  my  George — my  good  and  tender 


168 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


husband — the  father  of  my  babes.  Oh,  my  dear,  do  not 
speak  of  forgiveness,  you  tear  my  heart.  ” 

******* 

At  midnight  George,  who  had  fallen  into  a gentle  sleep, 
awoke  with  a violent  start.  He  sat  up  iirbed  catching  his 
breath  with  a gasp.  He  threw  off  the  bed-clothes.  He 
would  have  leaped  out  of  bed  but  that  Nettie  laid  her  hand 
on  him. 

“ My  dear,”  she  said,  64  patience.  I am  here — courage 
and  patience.  It  is  for  the  children's  sake.” 

She  turned  up  the  light.  He  looked  round  and  remem- 
bered. He  was  not  on  the  sofa  of  the  cottage. 

“ Bemember,”  she  said,  “you  have  sworn.  We  have 
prayed  together.  Oh,  George!  for  the  love  of  God,  for  the 
sake  6f  the  children!” 

“ Take  my  hand — take  my  hand — speak  to  me.  Let 
me  not  lose  myself.  The  devil  is  here— his  fingers  are  at 
my  throat — his  burning  fingers— ah!” 

There  followed  a conflict  more  determined,  more  terri- 
ble than  the  historic  duel  of  Christian  and  Apollyon.  It 
was  as  if  Christian  had  been  so  often  beaten  and  so  cowed 
by  continual  defeat  that  his  heart  was  taken  out  of  him. 
Man  against  devil — man  with  no  other  weapon  than  the 
shield  of  endurance.  Devil  with  all  the  weapons— sword 
to  strike,  lance  to  pierce,  red-hot  pincers  to  burn  and  tear* 

Beside  the  bed  stood  or  knelt  the  wife  holding  fast  her 
husband^  hand,  cooling  his  burning  forehead  with  a wet 
sponge,  soothing,  consoling,  encouraging  him  — praying 
aloud  for  him,  that  the  Lord  would  strengthen  him  in  this 
hour  of  agony,  torn  with  the  anguish  of  witnessing  the 
tortures  of  one  fighting  against  the  most  dreadful  of  all  ills 
which  beset  body  and  soul — the  maddened  craving  for 
drink.  It  was  such  torture  as  caused  this  great  man  to 
roll  about  and  writhe;  it  made  his  eyes  start  and  stare 
wildly;  it  made  him  gasp  and  fight  for  breath;  but  he 


THE  DEMONIAC.  169 

would  not  give  in.  It  was  the  last  chance  for  him.  He 
would  not  cry  for  drink. 

From  time  to  time  his  mind  wandered  and  he  talked  in- 
coherently. 

44  Then,”  he  said,  quoting  from  some  old  voyage,  64  they 
sailed  their  craft  for  two  days  along  the  coast,  and  the  heat 
of  the  place  was  such  that  they  called  it  Pernambuco,  or 
the  mouth  of  hell;  so  that  some  of  the  men  went  mad  and 
jumped  overboard,  crying  for  cold  water,  and  so  perished 
miserably.  But  those  who  held  on  presently  came  to  a 
pleasant  haven  where  there  were  fruits,  springs  of  fresh 
water,  and  cool  breezes,  and  so  were  refreshed  and  com- 
forted.” 

And  so  on,  talk  strange — talk  of  a man  in  the  intervals 
of  torture.  When  they  racked  the  victims  of  the  Holy 
Inquisition,  between  the  rackings  the  wretches  would  mur- 
mur of  sweet  streams  and  soft  banks  and  love,  and  all 
kipds  of  pleasant  things.  Then  the  screw  was  turned  and 
they  came  back  to  agony. 

For  two  hours;  while  the  agony  brought  out  the  beads 
upon  his  forehead  and  swelled  the  veins  of  his  neck  and 
face  and  cramped  his  limbs.  Every  moment  of  yielding 
during  the  last  five  years  lengthened  the  torture;  every 
moment  of  surrender  made  that  torture  worse. 

44  Oh,  my  dear!  my  dear!  my  brave,  dear  George — my 
poor  dear  George!”  murmured  his  wife. 

In  the  room  outside  John  Carew  paced  up  and  down  list- 
ening. He  heard  the  prayers  of  the  wife;  he  heard  her 
words  of  comfort  and  of  encouragement.  He  looked  to 
hear  the  cry  of  surrender  and  despair,  when  he  must  take 
away  the  wife  and  send  in  the  strong  men — his  garrison, 
who  were  sleeping  in  the  kitchen  chairs,  ready  for  action; 
but  that  cry  came  not.  And  he  marveled;  for  still  the 
wife  prayed  and  still  she  encouraged  her  husband,  and  still 
there  was  silence  save  for  such  murmured  words  as  you 
have  heard  when  his  mind  wandered. 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


170 

]n  all  great  suffering,  in  all  times  of  great  trouble,  there 
comes  a supreme  moment  when  it  seems  as  if  no  more 
could  be  borne,  but  that  madness  must  follow.  At  this 
moment  death  comes,  or  the  suffering  ceases  and  the 
patient  lives. 

To  George  there  came  such  a moment.  He  fell  back. 
His  face  was  ghastly;  he  gasped;  his  hands  were  clinched; 
his  eyes  stared;  his  limbs  were  contorted;  he  seemed  to  be 
dying.  His  wife  bent  over  him,  breathless. 

Then  a change.  The  ghastliness  left  his  cheeks;  he 
closed  his  eyes;  he  sighed;  he  composed  his  limbs.  Was 
he  dying?  No;  he  breathed  softly;  he  lay  at  rest.  The 
battle  was  over.  He  had  beaten  the  devil. 

Presently  he  opened  his  eyes.  “It  is  over,  Nettie— -it  is 
all  over.  The  devil  has  gone— he  will  not  come  again  for 
two  months.  When  next  he  comes  we  will  fight  him 
again.  Kiss  me,  dear.  Have  no  longer  any  fear.  Lie 
down  now  and  rest — or  one  service  more.  Pull  back  the 
curtains;  let  me  see  the  day  again — ” The  sky  was  splen- 
did with  the  rising  sun.  “ Oh,  my  dear — my  dear — the 
new  day  begins — the  new  day.  Lie  down  and  sleep  and 
let  me  think  of  the  new  day  and  of  the  children  and  of 
you.  Lie  down  and  sleep  and  take  your  rest.  Nettie, 
Nettie — do  not  cry.  It  is  over — I am  a free  man  at  last! 
I am  a free  man!  That  is,”  his  voice  dropped  and  he 
murmured,  unheard  by  his  wife,  who  was  praising  God  for 
this  great  mercy,  “ I think  I may  be  a free  man.  But  I 
doubt — I doubt.  The  devil  is  very  cunning.” 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  REWARD. 

The  political  views  of  the  Patager  family  are  divided. 
Thus  the  elder  Patager  takes  in  the  “ Echo;”  his  son 
Horatio,  the  “Star”  (but  perhaps  more  for  its  sporting 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


m 


news  than  for  its  politics),  and  Victoria’s  husband  takes 
the  “Evening  News.”  They  generally  read  the  whole 
paper  through  slowly.  It  is  the  chief,  sometimes  the  only, 
literature  of  these  people;  it  is  their  sole  method  of  com- 
munication with  the  outer  world.  Many  of  the  lower 
creatures  communicate  by  means  of  tentacles,  filaments, 
and  so  forth,  with  the  things  around  them.  It  is  man’s 
privilege  to  communicate  with  the  world  round  him  by 
means  of  the  newspapers.  They  administer  to  him,  when 
he  can  learn  it,  a daily  lesson  to  humanity.  They  also 
provide  for  him  his  principal  means  of  taking  pleasure. 
How  else  or  where  can  one  get  a whole  evening’s  amuse- 
ment for  the  ridiculous  sum  of  one  halfpenny? 

Mr.  Patager,  senior,  industriously  and  regularly  read  all 
the  advertisements  right  through.  He  keeps  this  part  of 
the  paper  to  the  last;  it  is  his  bonne-bouche ; it  gives  him 
more  satisfaction  than  even  the  correspondence  columns. 
The  announcement  of  houses  to  be  let  or  sold,  of  lodgings 
offered  to  young  men,  of  situations  vacant  or  wanted,  of 
profitable  exchanges,  of  things  to  be  sold,  of  great  bar- 
gains, all  alike,  if  not  equally,  interest  him.  1 know  not 
why,  except  as  a love  story  may,  for  memories  it  awakens, 
interest  an  ancient  dame.  Mostly,  of  course,  he  delights 
in  the  personal  advertisements.  He  read  with  pleasure 
the  reminder  to  H.  E.  that  his  wife  awaits  him  with  for- 
giveness; the  hint  from  Queenie  that  she  expects  Tom  at 
the  next  appointment,  or  she  must  seek  advice;  the 
thieves’  tip,  conveyed  in  a piece  of  information  concerning 
A.  B.,  of  Bradford;  the  recall  of  the  prodigal  son  with  the 
promise  of  a fatted  calf;  all  these  things  may  be  turned  by 
an  imaginative  mind  into  romance,  comedy,  and  tragedy. 
We  know  that  if  H.  E.  does  return  to  his  wife  he  will 
probably  meet  with  reproaches  harder  to  bear  than  the 
oaken  cudgel;  we  are  quite  sure  that  Queenie  has  already 
deposited  all  Tom’s  letters  with  a solicitor,  and  that  she 
awaits  with  cheerfulness  either  the  wedding-ring  or  sub- 


172 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


stantial  damages;  and  if  we  have  any  experience  at  all  of 
prodigal  sons,  this  one  most;  certainly  will  not  come  back 
so  long  as  a single  shilling  remains,  because,  you  see,  the 
domestic  fatted  calf  is  insipid  compared  with  the  same  dish 
served  up  hot  and  hot  with  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  in 
the  flowery  path. 

This  evening.  Mr.  Patager,  senior,  read  in  its  turn  an 
advertisement  which  at  first  he  nearly  passed  by.  Then 
something  in  it  caught  his  eye  and  he  read  it  again  with 
attention. 

44  My  dear, ''  he  said,  looking  up  slowly,  64  there  is  some- 
thing very  strange  about  this.  '' 

44  About  what?” 

44  About  this  advertisement.  Listen: 

44  4 Fifty  Pounds  Reward. 

4 4 4 The  above  will  be  paid  to  any  person  who  will 
give  information  as  to  the  present  residence  of  George 
Atheling , gentleman,  of  Atheling  Court,  Bucks,  if  he 
is  living,  or  as  to  the  time  and  place  of  his  death  if 
he  is  dead.  He  was  last  heard  of  in  January,  1887. 
The  s^id  George  Atheling  is  about  twenty-eight  years 
of  age;  he  is  six  feet  three  inches  in  height;  he  has 
blue  eyes  and  dark-brown  hair;  he  is  broad-shouldered  and 
strong;  his  voice  is  low  and  musical;  he  has  perhaps  as- 
sumed some  other  name.  Address  Messrs.  Mansfield  & 
Westbury,  109  New  Square,  Lincoln's  Inn.' 

44  Why,  good  gracious,  my  dear  '' — the  wife  jumped  out 
of  her  chair — 44  let  me  read  it:  4 Six  feet  three — blue  eyes 
— dark-brown  hair — broad-shouldered — twenty-eight — his 
voice  ' — why — why — who— -who — who — who  should  it  be 
but  our  Nettie's  George?” 

44  Our  Nettie's  George — no  other,''  Mr.  Patager  echoed, 
solemnly.  44  They  have  advertised  for  him!  Now  what 
can  that  mean?  George  Atheling,  gentleman,  of  Atheling 


THE  DEMONIAC/  173 

Court — it  can’t  be,  yet  the  description — my  dear,  it  tallies 
in  every  particular.” 

44  Let  me  read  it  again,”  said  the  wife.  44  My  dear,  all 
I’ve  prophesied  has  come  true.”  She  returned  the  paper 
and  sat  down  with  a smile  of  triumph.  44  Often  and  often 
have  1 said,  4 That  man’s  done  something.  Some  day 
he’ll  be  found  out;’  and  now  you  see.” 

44  It  certainly  does  look  like  it.  But  the  name  is  differ- 
ent. And  gentleman,  you  see,  not  journalist.” 

44  We  are  all  gentlemen,  1 suppose,”  said  his  wife. 

44  In  the  city — yes;  but  we  draw  the  line  at  journalists.” 
They  stared  at  each  other. 

44  Fifty  pounds  reward!”  said  the  wife. 

44 1 wonder  what’s  he’s  done,”  said  the  husband. 
44  Embezzlement,  perhaps— forgery,  perhaps — ” 

44  Fifty  pounds  reward!”  the  wife  repeated.  44  Fifty 
pounds  reward!  Why  shouldn’t  we  have  that  money?” 

44  What!  and  give  up  our  son-in-law  to  justice?  Shame! 
shame!” 

44  If  you  come  to  that,  somebody  else  will  very  soon  give 
him  up.  Better  you  than  a stranger.  Why,  you  might 
make  terms  for  him  and  still  put  the  money  in  your 
pocket.  Go  yourself  and  see  these  lawyers.” 

Mr.  Patager  stared  at  his  wife.  To  betray  his  daugh- 
ter’s husband  was  one  thing.  To  ask  what  the  lawyers 
meant,  and  if  there  was  no  betraying  to  put  fifty  pounds 
in  his  pocket,  was  quite  another  thing. 

44  My  poor  Nettie,”  sighed  the  mother.  44  What  in  the 
world  will  she  do  now?  Her  husband  found  out — clapped 
in  prison — brought  before  the  judge — found  guilty — con- 
demned to  penal  servitude — well,  it’s  one  comfort  that  the 
headstrong  girl  got  no  consent  from,  us.  She  went  into  it 
of  her  own  stubborn  will.  You  remember  she  would 
have  the  man.  ” 

44  She  would  have  him.  That’s  one  comfort.  But  it’s 
a dreadful  disgrace— think  of  that.  My  dear,”  he  got  up 


174 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


slowly,  “ the  least  we  can  do  is  to  warn  him.  I will  step 
round.  He  may  be  able  to  get  off  in  time.  ” 

“I'll  come  too,”  said  his  wife.  “In  her  time  of 
trouble,  Nettie  sha'n't  say  we've  deserted  her.  Besides, 
we  may  find  out  what  he's  done. 99 

They  walked  down  the  road  together.  The  house  was 
in  darkness  and  shut  up.  No  one  answered  the  bell;  it 
was  deserted. 

What  had  happened? 

The  pair  looked  at  each  other. 

“I  know,”  said  the  wife;  “he's  been  warned.  He's 
taken  Nettie  and  the  babies  and  the  gal  and  he's  run  for 
it.  He  will  get  over  to  America,  where  they'll  never  catch 
him,  and  we  shall  never  see  Nettie  any  more.'' 

“I  hope  it  maybe  so.  I hope  he'll  getaway — Ido 
hope  he’ll  get  away.'' 

“ And  to-morrow  you'll  go  and  see  those  lawyers  and 
find  out  what  he's  wanted  for,  and  you  may  claim  that  re- 
ward. Fifty  pounds!  It'll  come  in  handy;  and  since  Net- 
tie's gone  out  of  the  way  and  the  babies  and  all,  and  no 
more  harm  can  come  to  her,  and  somebody  else'll  get  that 
money— you  go  first  thing  to-morrow  morning  to  the  law- 
yers.'' 

“ Well,  my  dear,  it  does  seem  like  betraying  of  your  own 
flesh  and  blood,  doesn't  it?  I don't  altogether  like  it.'' 

“ Nonsense.  How  are  you  ever  going  to  get  on  if  you 
won't  even  pick  up  what  lies  at  your  feet?  Now,  my 
dear,''  she  turned  upon  her  husband  with  a kind  of  fierce- 
ness, “ what  did  I always  say?  What  did  1 tell  you?  A 
man  forced  to  go  into  hiding.  Now  I hope  1 shall  be  be- 
lieved another  time.'' 

They  went  home  together,  but  apart,  the  woman  full  of 
a fierce  joy— the  son-in-law  whom  she  hated  had  come  to 
grief — the  man  full  of  shame  and  pity. 

In  a certain  billiard-room  Horatio  Patager  sat  watching 
the  game  of  pool.  He  never  played  pool  at  all,  nor  bill- 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


175 


iards  unless  he  could  find  a player  worse  than  himself,  be- 
cause his  stroke  was  uncertain  and  his  play  flukey.  He 
sat  and  looked  on.  He  smoked  cigarettes  all  the  time,  he 
laid  a shilling  on  the  game  now  and  then,  and  when  he 
could  afford  it  he  drank  a whisky  and  soda.  This  evening 
he  held  in  his  hand  a copy  of  the  44  Star,”  at  which  he 
glanced  from  time  to  time,  but  lazily,  because  this  evening 
the  journal  was  mostly  political.  Suddenly  he  started. 
He  changed  color.  He  dropped  his  cigarette.  This  was 
what  he  read : 

44  Fifty  Pounds  Rewabd. 

44  The  above  reward  will  be  paid  to  any  one  who  will 
give  information  as  to  the  present  residence  of  George 
Atheling,  gentleman,  formerly  of  Atheling  Court,  Bucks, 
if  he  is  living,  or  as  to  the  place  and  date  of  his  death 
if  he  is  dead.  The  said  George  Atheling  is  about  twenty- 
eight  years  of  age;  he  is  six  feet  three  inches  in  height; 
he  has  blue  eyes  and  dark-brown  hair;  he  is  broad-shoul- 
dered and  strong;  his  voice  is  low  and  musical.  He  has 
perhaps  assumed  another  name.  Address  Messrs.  Mansfield 
& Westbury,  solicitors,  109  New  Square,  Lincoln's  Inn.” 

44  Why,”  he  murmured,  44  it’s  his  very  description,  It's 
his  likeness  to  the  life;  every  point  of  it  is  his  likeness. 
Six  feet  three — blue  eyes — dark-brown  hair — broad-shoul- 
dered— low  voice — there  can't  be  two  like  him.  4 Gentle- 
man ' they  call  him!  We're  all  gentlemen,  if  you  come  to 
that.  Of  Atheling  Court.  Name  of  the  place  where  he 
comes  from.  Changed  his  name.  Fifty  pounds  reward! 
1 wonder  what  he's  done.  I wonder  what  he'll  get.  Well, 
I'm  sorry  for  Nettie,  but  it  serves  her  right.  Fifty  pounds 
reward!  Well,  I always  knew  he'd  done  something. 
Changed  his  name.  Fifty  pounds  reward!” 

He  left  the  billiard-room  and  strolled  in  the  direction  of 
his  sister's  house.  He  would  look  in,  perhaps,  casually, 
just  to  see  the  man  for  whose  capture  they  were  going  to 


176 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


give  fifty  pounds  reward.  This  was  the  man  who  ordered 
Nettie  not  to  lend  him  anything.  Ha!  The  time  had 
come.  Vengeance! 

He  could  not  gaze  upon  the  man  at  so  interesting  a crisis 
of  his  fortunes,  because  the  house  was  dark  and  shut  up. 
“He  must  have  bolted/’  said  Horatio,  “and  has  taken 
Nettie  and  the  kids  with  him.  Never  mind — they  can 
easily  be  followed,  and— and — and — I’ll  get  that  reward  or 
I’ll  know  the  reason  why.” 

Victoria’s  husband,  we  have  seen,  read  the  “ Evening 
News.”  He  read  it  after  supper  when  there  was  nothing 
left  of  the  day  except  an  hour  of  tobacco  and  rest. 

He,  too,  chanced  presently  upon  the  advertisement. 

“Vic,”  he  said,  changing  color,  “ what  was  George 
Humphrey  before  he  came  here?” 

“ I don’t  know.  Nobody  knows,  not  even  Nettie.  She 
pretends  to  know,  but  she  doesn’t  really  know.  He  won’t 
tell.” 

“ He  wasn’t  always  a penny-a-liner,  Vic.” 

“ Very  likely  not.” 

“ It’s  my  opinion  that  he  was  formerly  a gentleman.  I 
mean — of  course,  we’re  all  gentlemen,  but  I mean  a swell, 
with  money.  There’s  swell  written  all  over  him,  and  as 
for  money,  he  buys  things  without  asking  their  price. 
Nobody  but  a born  swell  ever  does  that,  and  he  spends 
sixpences  as  if  he  were  made  of  sixpences.” 

“ What  are  you  driving  at,  Charlie?  There’s  something 
on  your  mind.” 

“ Well,  I told  you  what  the  chap  from  Melbourne  said. 

6 No  such  name  in  the  place,’  he  said.  Now,  let  me  go 
on.  George  was  once  a swell — I’m  sure  of  it.  George  is 
down  on  his  luck.  Why?  George  has  got  through  his 
money.  George  has  done  something — ” 

“ Ah!”  cried  Vic,  looking  up  and  now  thoroughly  inter- 
ested. 

“ They  always  do  something  when  there  is  no  more 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


177 


money.  It's  the  regular  rule.  They  cheat  at  cards;  they 
welch  at  races;  they  run  matches  in  the  Cross;  they  forge 
their  fathers'  names.  They’ve  no  principle  at  all,  bless 
you!  It  is  because  the  swells  are  not  brought  up  moral, 
like  us.  They  can't  resist  temptation,  you  see — like  us — 
when  it  comes. " 

“What  do  you  think  he's  done,  Charlie?"  Vic  whis-^ 
pered. 

“Forgery,  most  likely.  Very  well.  Suppose  it  was 
found  out  and  they  wanted  him,  how  would  they  set  about 
it?" 

“ Why,  they  would  advertise  for  him,  I suppose." 

“Just  so,  just  so,  Vic.  You've  exactly  hit  it,  my  dear. 
They  would  advertise  for  him.  And  now  listen  to  this: 

“ 4 Fifty  Pounds  Keward. 

“ 4 The  above  reward  will  be  paid  to  any  one  who  will 
give  information  as  to  the  present  residence  of  George 
Atheling,  gentleman,  formerly  of  Atheling  Court,  Bucks, 
if  he  is  living,  or  as  to  the  place  and  date  of  his  death,  if 
he  is  dead.  The  said  George  Atheling  is  about  twenty- 
eight  years  of  age;  he  is  six  feet  three  inches  in  height;  he 
has  blue  eyes  and  dark-brown  hair;  he  is  broad-shouldered 
and  strong;  his  voice  is  low  and  musical.  He  has  perhaps 
assumed  another  name.  Address  Messrs.  Mansfield  & 
Westbury,  solicitors,  109  New  Square,  Lincoln's  Inn.' " 

“Good  gracious  me!"  cried  his  wife.  44  It  can't  be 
meant  for  any  other  man.  It  can't  be.  There  are  not 
two  men  in  the  world  like  that.  Oh,  my  poor  Nettie! 
Whatever  in  the  world  will  she  do?" 

44  The  very  first  time  1 saw  him,"  Charlie  continued, 
44 1 said  to  myself,  4 this  man's  a real  swell — none  of  your 
common  mashers.'  Ever  since  I've  been  looking  for  this. 
Well,  he's  had  a long  rope — " 

44  Whatever  in  the  world  will  Nettie  do?"  asked  Vic. 


178 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


“Charlie,  1 shall  go  and  see  her  this  minute.  Perhaps 
she  hasn’t  even  been  warned.” 

64  Fifty  pounds  reward,  Vic — fifty  pounds  reward!  1 
say,  what  couldn’t  we  do  with  fifty  pounds?” 

Nettie  was  not  at  home,  nor  anybody.  The  house  was 
quite  dark  and  no  one  answered  the  bell. 

44  Good  gracious!”  said  Victoria.  44  Something’s  hap- 
pened already.  Do  you  think  he’s  caught  and  sent  to 
prison  already?  Would  they  let  Nettie  and  the  children 
into  the  jail  with  him?” 

44  Fifty  pounds  reward,  Vic.  If  we  don’t  touch  that 
money  some  one  else  will — and  we  can’t  do  Nettie  any 
harm,  because  he’s  certain  to  be  caught.  A big  man  like 
that  has  no  chance.  Shows  what  a blessed  thing  it  is  to  be 
short,”  said  Charlie,  who  stood  five  feet  three  in  his  boots. 
44 1 dare  say  you’ve  often  envied  Nettie  for  having  such  a 
big  husband.  Now  you’ll  see  he’s  so  big  that  he  can’t  get 
away.  ” 

At  half  past  nine  next  morning  when  the  clerks  of 
Mansfield  & Westbury  began  to  arrive  they  found  a young 
fellow,  too,  waiting  outside  the  door,  which  is  on  the  first 
floor.  He  explained  that  he  had  come  about  an  advertise- 
ment, and  he  produced  the  44  Star”  of  the  day  before. 
He  was  told  that  he  could  come  in  and  wait  till  the  arrival 
of  Mr.  Westbury.  That  event  generally  happened  a little 
before  ten. 

It  happened  this  morning  as  usual.  The  young  man 
was  asked  his  name.  He  said,  but  nobody  believed  the 
statement,  that  it  was  44  concerning  an  advertisement.” 

Being  shown  to  Mr.  Westbury ’s  private  room,  he  opened 
the  paper  and  pointed  to  the  advertisement. 

44  Well,  sir?”  asked  the  lawyer. 

44 1 know  the  house  where  he  lives  and  the  place  where 
he  works.  Give  me  the  money  and  I will  give  you  the  in- 
formation.” 

44  Not  so  fast.  Who  are  you?” 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


179 


“ My  name  is  Horatio  Patager.  I am  a clerk  in  the 
city.  He  married  my  sister.  That  will  show  you  that  I 
ought  to  know.  ” 

“ Well,  sir,  1 am  sorry  to  inform  you — ” 

“Ah!  well,  Fd  rather  not  know — don’t  cher  know?” 
Horatio  interrupted  with  a blush,  which  shows  that  the 
young  man  had  still  left  in  him  a spark  of  grace.  “ Fd 
rather  not  have  that  information.  Keep  it  to  yourself.  1 
dessay  1 shall  hear  all  about  it  some  time.  Give  me  the 
money  and  I’ll  tell  you  where  to  find  him.  It’s  only  a 
matter  of  business.  I want  a few  words  with  a certain 
gentleman,  says  you,  whose  address  I happen  to  have  lost. 
I’ll  pay  any  one  who’ll  take  me  to  that  gentleman,  says 
you.  Fifty  pounds  is  the  figuie,  says  you.  If  that’s  all 
you  want,  says  I,  why,  the  gentleman  is  my  own  brother- 
in-law.  Come  along  and  give  me  the  money,  and  I’ll  show 
you  where  he  lives.” 

“Oh!” 

“ You  see,  in  the  city  we  are  all  business  men.  There’s 
no  friendship  in  business.  Everybody  knows  that.  A 
bargain’s  a bargain.  I don’t  ask  what  you  mean  to  do 
with  your  information — ” 

“ Do  you  know  anything  about  the  previous  life  of  your 
brother-in-law?” 

“ No,  I don’t,  but  I can  pretty  well  guess,”  the  young 
man  replied,  with  a look  of  so  much  meaning  that  the 
lawyer  felt  inclined  to  knock  him  down  off-hand.  “ Come, 
sir,  1 don’t  ask  what  you  want  hirn  for.  No  doubt  ” — he 
grinned — “ it’s  to  give  him  a little  fortune.  That’s  what 
generally  happens  when  a man  is  wanted,  isn’t  it?” 

“ In  a word,  sir,  you  have  come  here  with  the  intention 
of  betraying  your  own  sister’s  husband.  Well,  you  will  be 
sorry  to  learn  that  you  are  too  late.  We  know  that  Mr. 
George  Atheling,  otherwise  George  Humphrey,  lives  in  the 
Daffodil  Road,  and  we  know  where  that  road  is?  You  can 
go,  sir,’* 


180 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


Horatio  turned  white.  Ever  since  the  reading  of  the 
advertisement,  all  through  the  dark  watches  of  the  night, 
he  had  been  thinking  of  this  glorious  windfall.  It  was 
already  in  his  grasp;  he  had  his  hands  upon  it.  Heavens! 
what  a fling  he  might  have  with  fifty  pounds!  And  now 
it  was  gone. 

“You  can  go,”  the  lawyer  repeated. 

“I  don't  believe  you  know,”  cried  the  disappointed 
clerk.  “ You  won't  give  the  money  to  me,  yet  I'm  the 
first.  It's  mine  by  right— you've  advertised  it — I'll  have 
it,  too,  if  there's  law  in  the  land.'' 

“ Plenty  of  law — plenty  of  law.  Go  and*  look  for  it 
now,  sir.'' 

The  lawyer  looked  big  and  threatening.  Horatio  re- 
tired. 

About  eleven  there  arrived  an  elderly  gentleman  who 
requested  to  see  one  of  the  principals,  and  said  he  had 
called  about  an  advertisement. 

“ Sir,''  he  said,  “ I have  many  reasons  to  believe  that 
the  person  advertised  for  in  last  night's  6 Echo  ' is  my  son- 
in-law.  '' 

“ Indeed!  Then  you  could  tell  me  his  place  of  resi- 
dence, no  doubt?'' 

“ I certainly  could.  But  1 should  like,  first  of  all,  to 
know  what  he  has  done.  If  it's  anything  very  bad — any- 
thing that  brings  him  within  the  law— you  might  be  mer- 
ciful enough  to  let  me  know  on  account  of  my  daughter, 
poor  girl.  Her  mother  has  always  been  of  opinion  that 
George  has  done  something  and  that  he  is  in  hiding.  For 
my  own  part,  1 can  not  believe  otherwise  than  that  he  is 
an  honest  man. '' 

“ Well,  sir?” 

“ My  wife  thinks  that  I ought  to  give  this  information 
and  to  claim  the  reward,  because  fifty  pounds  doesn’t  come 
in  our  way  every  day.  But  1 say  no,  not  if  it  is  to  bring 


THE  DEM  OKI  AC.  181 

trouble  upon  my  daughter’s  head.  Therefore,  sir,  if  it  is 
trouble  I will  withhold  the  information  and  go  away.” 

“ Upon  my  word,  sir,  I am  very  sorry  that  we  can  not 
give  you  the  reward  under  the  circumstances.  Unfortu- 
nately, you  are  too  late.  We  know  where  to  find  our 
man.” 

“Oh!”  Mr.  Patager  sighed,  “I  am  glad  that  the  re- 
ward will  not  come  to  me,  though  my  wife — but  you  are 
yourself,  perhaps,  a married  man,  sir — and  she  would 
have — to  me  it  did  seem  like  selling  your  daughter’s  hus- 
band.” 

“ Be  easy,  sir.  You  shall  not  sell  your  son-in-law.” 

“ Then,  sir,  if  1 may  ask  the— the  reason  for  the  adver- 
tisement— what  my  unhappy  son-in-law  has  done — ” 

“ 1 fear,  Mr.  Patager,  that  I can  not  for  the  moment, 
inform  you.  Let  it  suffice  that  we  know  where  to  find 
him.” 

“ Shall  you  send  him  up  for  trial?  He  has  a wife  and 
children.  Consider,  it  will  be  my  daughter’s  ruin.” 

“Bless  the  man!”  cried  the  lawyer.  “Why  will  you 
assume  that  he  has  done  anything?  You  shall  learn — if 
it  is  thought  fit  to  tell  you— all  in  good  time.  Go  home, 
sir,  and  be  easy.  ” 

At  half  past  one,  in  the  dinner-hour,  there  appeared  a 
third  person,  again  a young  man.  He  said  he  called  about 
an  advertisement. 

“Well,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Westbury,  “you  know  where  to 
lay  your  hand  upon  the  gentleman  for  whom  we  are  ad- 
vertising, 1 suppose?” 

“I  do,  sir.” 

“ And  you  are  come  to  draw  the  reward.” 

“I  certainly  am — as  soon  as  you  have  received  and 
proved  my  intelligence.  Not  before.  I am  a man  of 
business — in  a bank.” 

“Mr.  Atheling’s  brother,  or  cousin,  or  father,  I sup- 
pose?” 


182 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


“I  married  his  wife’s  sister.  That  is  how  I know. 
Well,  sir,  you  want  his  address.  I can  give  it.  I don’t 
ask  what  he  has  done  or  why  you  want  him.  ” 

“ Just  so.  You  are  a purely  disinterested  person,  anx- 
ious only  that  justice  shall  be  done  even  on  your  nearest 
relatives?” 

“As  for  that,”  said  the  virtuous  Charles,  “I’ve  got 
nothing  to  do  with  justice.  I answer  an  advertisement.” 

“ Quite  so.  Well,  sir,  your  truly  honorable  purpose  is 
defeated.  You  can  tell  your  brother-in-law  that  you 
wished  to  sell  him,  but  that  you  were  anticipated.” 

“ Is  it  Horatio?”  Charles  asked,  anxiously.  “ He  is 
quite  capable  of  it.  I hope  that  you  will  consider,  sir.  I 
came  here  as  soon  as  I could.  I submit  that  half  of  the 
reward  should  be  mine — half — things  are  very  tight.  My 
screw  is  only  a hundred  and  fifty.” 

The  lawyer  pointed  to  the  door. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  a great  many  people  came 
“about  the  advertisement.”  In  fact,  it  was  so  easy  to 
spot  the  man  from  the  description  that  every  one  who  saw 
the  advertisement  and  knew  George  Humphrey  by  ap- 
pearance immediately  rushed  to  the  solicitors’  in  hopes  of 
getting  that  reward.  Thus  the  family  butcher,  the  family 
baker,  the  family  grocer,  the  family  milkman,  the  family 
shoemaker,  the  policeman,  the  pew-opener,  the  proprietor 
of  the  Clerkland  “ Observer,”  the  printers  of  that  paper, 
the  office-boy — all  came  and  said  they  wanted  fifty  pounds 
for  their  information.  They  all  said  they  knew  the  gen- 
tleman and  where  he  lived.  They  mostly  added  that  they 
could  guide  anybody  to  the  house  so  that  he  could  be 
“ taken  up  ” without  trouble.  This  shows  what  inferences 
are  drawn  when  a man  is  advertised.  And  they  went  away 
in  great  sadness  when  they  found  they  were  too  late.  How 
seldom  comes  such  a chance! 

One  has  watched  the  people  who  stand  in  front  of  the 
proclamation  outside  police  stations — “ Murder  ! Om 


THE  DEM  OH  I AC. 


183 


Hundred  Pounds  Reward  V9  How  eagerly  they  read  the 
notice.  How  they  yearn  and  long  and  pray  for  the  oppor- 
tunity of  betraying  some  poor  wretch  to  his  doom.  There 
are  cases  on  record  in  which  a man  having  once  gained 
such  a reward,  has  given  up  honest  work  forever  after  and 
now  lives  in  the  hope  of  getting  another.  Nay,  it  is  said 
that  he  even  endeavors  to  play  the  part  of  Jonathan 
Wild,  though  in  these  days  of  suspicion  it  is  a difficult 
metier . However  this  may  be,  there  certainly  are  men 
who  dream  continually  of  getting  such  a prize,  just  as 
there  are  men  who  dream  of  winning  a prize  in  an  Austrian 
lottery. 

Next  day  there  were  more  applicants,  and  the  day  after, 
and  for  many  days — belated  unfortunates  who  only  saw 
the  paper  the  day  after — miserable  thus  to  miss  a chance 
so  rare.  As  the  years  roll  on  and  the  chance  never  comes 
again,  many  little  romances  will  grow  up,  how  the  fifty- 
pound  prize  was  missed  by  an  hour,  by  half  an  hour,  by  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  by  ten  minutes,  five,  three,  one;  by  a 
couple  of  yards  after  a race  all  the  way — by  a foot,  a neck, 
a nose.  It  will  be  a distinction  even  to  have  been  beaten 
by  a whole  day. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Patager  were  in  low  spirits.  Their  son-in- 
law  had  been  advertised  for;  everybody  knew  by  this  time 
the  disgraceful  fact  There  would  be  but  one  opinion — he 
had  done  something,  the  nature  of  which  could  not  be  as- 
certained. He  had  fled.  His  wife  had  gone  with  him. 
The  advice  of  the  lawyer  to  keep  his  mind  easy  failed  to 
comfort  Mr.  Patager.  How  to  face  the  neighbors?  How 
to  stand  up  in  the  family  pew  with  all  eyes  turned  in  their 
direction?  How  to  carry  round  the  plate  after  the  serv- 
ice, conscious  that  everybody  was  whispering,  “ and  his 
son-imlaw  has  been  obliged  to  fly  the  country?” 

They  were  alone.  Horatio  was  out,  as  usual,  seeking 
consolation  on  the  flowery  path. 


134 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


“ We  are  disgraced,”  said  the  father.  “ 1 suppose  it 
will  soon  become  known  in  the  city.  I shall  never  get 
over  the  shame  of  it. ” 

Mr.  Patager  is  not  the  only  man  who  thinks  that  the 
eyes  of  the  whole  city  are  always  watching  him  with  envy 
and  respect.  Indeed,  it  is  a wholesome  belief  and  has  led 
to  the  foundation  of  many  chantries,  chapels,  and  alms- 
houses, and  schools,  and  it  keeps  many  young  men 
straight. 

“I  always  said  it.  I always  said  it.”  The  confirma- 
tion, so  to  speak,  of  the  prophetic  gift  is  the  commonest 
form  of  consolation. 

“ You  always  did,  my  dear.  We  shall  remember  that. 
It  does  your  penetration  the  highest  credit.  You  always 
said  that  he’d  done  something.” 

“ Something  disgraceful,  1 said.” 

“ Something  disgraceful — yes,  of  course,  something  dis- 
graceful.” 

Here  the  door  opened  and  Victoria  appeared. 

“Oh,  my  dear!”  her  mother  groaned;  “ here's  an 
awful  thing.  However  in  the  world  shall  we  get  over  it? 
Well,  I always  said — you  remember,  Victoria — 1 always 
said  that  he  must  have  committed  some  dreadful  crime.” 

“ Stuff  and  rubbish!”  replied  her  daughter,  wrathf ully. 
“ Crime,  indeed!” 

“ Why,  he’s  been  advertised  for.” 

“ Yes,  and  I wish  they’d  advertise  for  Charlie  on  the 
same  terms.  He  went  round  at  dinner-time  to  inquire 
about  the  reward,  you  know — but  of  course  Horatio  was 
before  him.  That  boy  is  capable  of  any  meanness.  1 sup- 
pose he’s  out  now,  spending  the  reward  at  the  music- 
halls.” 

“ The  disgrace  of  it!”  moaned  the  elder  lady,  wringing 
her  hands.” 

“You  and  your  disgrace!”  Vic  replied,  shortly. 
“ Why,  it’s  money!  That’s  what  it  is.  There’s  no  crime 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


185 


in  it,  and  no  shame,  and  no  disgrace.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  to  be  so  ready  with  your  crimes.  I suppose 
you'll  say  next  that  Charlie  has  disgraced  himself.” 

“ Money?”  asked  the  father. 

“ They’re  back  again.  Now  look.  George  was  at  John 
Carew’s  last  night  and  he  was  taken  very  bad — awful  bad. 
Nettie  hurried  round  there  with  the  children,  because  he 
thought  he  might  die.  She  nursed  him  all  night.  He’s 
better  this  morning,  and  the  lawyers  saw  him.  That’s  all 
the  story.  Now  they’ve  come  back.” 

“ Money?  How  much?” 

“ I don’t  know  how  much.  You  know  Nettie — how 
close  she’s  always  been  about  her  husbands  She  won’t  tell 
me  how  much.  He’d  changed  his  name  for  reasons,  and 
they  wanted  to  know  whether  he  was  dead  or  alive.  Dis- 
grace? As  if  George — our  George — could  disgrace  him- 
self. Mother,  I’m  ashamed  of  you — such  a suspicion!” 
Here  was  a volteface  worthy  of  a politician. 

“ Come,  Yic,  you’ve  said  yourself — a hundred  times — ” 
“ No,  mother,  not  that,  if  you  please.  1 may  have 
heard  you  say  it,  and  I know  my  duty  and  perhaps  I shall 
have  children  of  my  own;  but  disgrace — with  George — 
George  Atheling,  gentleman,  of  Atheling  Court?  Our 
Nettie’s  George?  And  him  with  money!  Mother,  I’m 
ashamed  of  you,  1 am!” 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

66  Tell  Elinor,”  said  George,  “ that  I have  taken  her 
at  her  word.  I shall  see  her  again  when  1 can  go  back  to 
her  as  I once  thought  myself — master  of  myself;  and  not 
till  then.” 

“You  are  already  master  of  yourself.  You  proved  it 
last  night,”  said  the  professor. 

“It  is  not  enough  to  prove  it  once.  I have  to  prove  it 


186 


HIE  DEMONIAC. 


again.  Yet  two  months  more,  and  the  time  will  have 
come  round  for  the  next  attack. 99 

44  You  need  have  no  fear- now.” 

“ Perhaps  not.  I am  now  convinced  that  the  fury  of 
last  night’s  attack  and  of  every  second  night  is  due  to  the 
yielding  of  the  first  night.  No,  1 have  little  fear.  But 
we  shall  see.  Meantime,  Nettie  knows  all.  1 have  con- 
cealed nothing  from  her.  She  agrees  with  me  that  until  I 
can  feel  myself  really  a free  man  1 have  no  right  to  res_ume 
my  old  place.  When  1 can  do  so,  1 will  return  and  bring 
her  with  me  and  the  children — 99 

44  Yes,  to  your  old  place — your  own  place — and  the  old 
ambitions.”  • 

George  shook  his  head. 

44  Not  the  old  ambitions.  They  are  gone.  They  are 
impossible  henceforth.  My  career  was  ruined  that  first 
night  at  Cambridge  when,  half  mad  and  half  asleep,  1 
seized  the  whisky  bottle.  The  man  who  has  once  been  a 
slave  can  never  afterward  command.  The  spirit  of  au- 
thority is  gone  from  him.  He  may  become  a free 
man,  but  never  with  the  old  mastership.  You  know  the 
old  galley-slave  by  the  dragging  leg.  All  the  rest  of  my 
life  you  will  see  the  dragging  leg  of  the  man  who  has  been 
a slave.  Henceforth  the  best  thing  1 can  hope  is  to  live 
retired  and  to  do  no  harm  to  anybody.” 

They  returned  to  Daffodil  Boad. 

George  repaired  as  usual  to  the  office  of  hi^s  paper  next 
morning.  He  was  received  with  universal  astonishment. 
Everybody  stared  at  him.  They  thought,  you  see,  that  he 
was  already  arrested  and  lodged  in  prison.  Except  for  the 
actual  details  of  the  crime  everything  was  certain.  Yet 
here  he  was  turning  up  again  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

The  proprietor  beckoned  him  into  his  private  room. 
Here  he  showed  him  the  advertisement. 

44  Well?”  asked  George,  reading  it.  44  The  advertise- 
ment is  meant  for  me.  Do  you  mean  that?  I have  al- 


THE  DEMOXIAC.  187 

ready  seen  the  solicitors  about  the  business.  What  is  the 
meaning  of  all  this  mystery  ?” 

“Why,  I thought — it’s  no  use  bouncing  about  it — 
there's  time  yet  if  you  like — ” he  jerked  his  left  thumb 
over  his  left  shoulder. 

“ Oh,  you  think  I was  wanted — what  is  called — ” 

“ I’m  sure  you  are.  Can’t  think  anything  else.” 

“ I suppose  not.  Fortunately,  however,  it  was  not  the 
police  who  wanted  me,  you  see,  but  my  friends.” 

■“Oh!”  The  proprietor’s  face  dropped.  “You  are 
going  to  stay,  after  all?” 

“ For  a time — yes.  ” 

The  proprietor’s  expressive  countenance  showed  the 
greatest  disappointment.  “Ah!”  he  said,  “ it’s  a great 
pity.  It  would  have  made  a splendid  bill.  Look  here  — 
I’ve  had  it  set  up  already.”  He  showed  a poster  all  in  red 
and  all  the  words  in  separate  lines  and  big  capitals.  “ Ar- 
rest of  the  Sub-Editor!  Fifty  Pounds  Reward!  At- 
tempted Flight!  Too  Late!  The  Crime!  The  Perpetra- 
tor! The  Motive!  Alleged  Confession!  The  Ruined 
Home!  The  Desolate  Hearth!  Where  is  Father?  A 
Weeping  Wife!” 

“Dear  me!”  said  George,  looking  at  the  work  of  art 
critically.  “ What  a pity  that  such  a splendid  bill  should 
be  wasted!” 

“ A pity  truly.  And  you  look  on  as  if  you  didn’t  care 
twopence.” 

“ Well,  1 don’t,  if  you  come  to  that.  Do  you  want  me 
to  stop  outside  and  commit  a crime  or  two  for  the  sake  of 
your  poster?” 

“You  may  laugh,  sir,  as  much  as  you  like.”  The 
proprietor’s  temper,  like  his  figure,  was  short.  “ But  Jet 
me  tell  you,  sir,  that  no  one  in  my  employ  laughs  at  me. 
No  one,  sir — no  one,  no  one.” 

“ Very  well.  Then  I leave  your  employment  at  once.” 
George  put  on  his  hat  in  token  of  emancipation.  “ Now 


188 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


that  I have  left  it  1 suppose  you  will  allow  me  to  laugh  at 
you.” 

The  proprietor,  fat  and  pursy,  looked  up  at  the  great 
giant  and  trembled.  He  remembered  that  he  had  never 
had  a sub-editor  half  or  quarter  so  good  and  never  should 
get  another  like  him.  So  he  made  haste  to  excuse  him- 
self. 

“ You  might  make  a little  allowance,  Mr.  Humphrey, 
for  my  little  disappointment.  No  one  knows  better  than 
you  what  a fillip  it  would  have  given  the  paper.” 

“ So  it  would — so  it  would.  Well,  let  us  go  on  again 
for  a bit.”  George  was  placable.  He  took  off  his  hat  and 
resumed  his  usual  seat.  “ Hand  me  the  scissors  and  the 
paste,”  he  said.  “ Pass  the  pen  and  ink.  1 remain  the 
sub-editor.” 

In  the  months  of  August  and  September,  when  even  the 
residents  of  this  quarter  manage  something  of  a holiday, 
except  when  things  are  at  their  very  tightest,  George  con- 
tinued at  his  desk  working  as  before.  By  tacit  consent  the 
night  of  the  great  conflict  was  never  spoken  of  between  his 
wife  and  himself.  They  were  to  wait  for  the  next  battle 
and  its  result.  After  a second  decisive  victory  the  future 
would  be  considered.  Great  changes  cast  their  shadows 
before.  Nettie  was  already  conscious  that  the  little  house 
was  too  little;  new  wants  were  already  budding  in  her 
brain;  a higher  standard  of  household  expenditure  was  at- 
tained and  daily  practiced. 

“ Four  weeks  from  to-day,  dear,”  said  George,  on  the 
first  of  September. 

“You  are  looking  stronger  than  ever,  George.  lean 
see  a change  in  you.  Your  very  eyes  are  stronger.” 

“ Three  weeks  from  to-day,”  he  said,  on  the  eighth  of 
September. 

“ If  you  fought  well  that  night,  dear,”  she  said,  “you 
will  fight  ten  times  as  well  in  three  weeks  from  to-day.” 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


189 


44  Only  a fortnight,”  he  said  on  the  fifteenth. 

44  The  sooner  it  comes  the  better.  I shall  be  with  you, 
as  I was  before,  all  night  long.” 

44  Only  a week  now,”  he  said,  on  the  twenty-second. 

44  That  is  all,  dear.  We  shall  soon  have  it  over  now.” 

44  This  evening,  dear — ” It  was  the  twenty-ninth. 

44  Go  for  a walk,  George.  Take  a good  long  walk.  Tire 
yourself  if  you  can,  and  think  of  nothing  but  of  victory 
and  strength.  These  great  arms — these  broad  shoulders. 
What  a man  you  are,  George!  Never  was  such  a strong 
man.  You  are  born  to  be  a fighting  man,  George.  ” 

44  You  are  a flattering  siren.  Well,  I am  a little  nerv- 
ous and  a little  excited.  1 will  go  for  that  walk  and  make 
it  last  all  day.  We  will  have  dinner  at  half  past  seven. 
After  that,  we  will  gird  on  the  armor  and  wait.” 

44  Do  you  think  that  man  will  come?” 

44 1 don't  know.  He  has  made  no  signs  since  July. 
Let  him  come  if  he  likes.  ” 

He  went  out  and  stayed  out,  walking  along  the  gritty 
road  fifteen  measured  miles  out  and  fifteen  back  again. 
He  came  home  a little  tired,  but  looking  in  splendid  con- 
dition. They  talked  of  other  things — the  children — trivial 
things  of  the  household.  But  from  time  to  time  Nettie 
glanced  at  her  husband.  He  grew  silent  and  thoughtful. 
His  face  was  set.  She  had  seen  it  so,  but  harder,  more 
determined,  on  that  night  when  he  made  her  hold  his 
hands,  as  if  her  very  touch  could  give  him  strength.  1 
verily  believe  that  no  act  of  his  had  so  much  endeared  him 
to  his  wife"  as  that  little  prayer  that  she  would  hold  his 
hand  while  he  went  down  into  the  mouth  of  hell. 

The  evening  was  dark  and  cold.  The  lamp  had  long 
been  lighted;  a fire  was  burning  on  the  hearth;  the  chil- 
dren were  in  bed;  the  pair  sat  opposite  each  other,  neither 
speaking. 

Suddenly,  without  any  preliminary  ringing  of  the  bell 


190 


THE  DEMONTAC. 


or  monitory  knocker,  the  door  opened  noiselessly  and  the 
man  Mavis  stood  before  them. 

He  stood  with  down-dropped  eyes,  holding  his  hat  in  his 
two  hands.  His  cheeks  seemed  paler  than  ever.  He  said 
nothing;  not  a word. 

4 6 George!”  Nettie  sprung  to  her  feet  and  threw  her 
arms  round  his  neck.  46  You  shall  not  go  with  this  man 
— you  shall  not!” 

44  Don’t  be  afraid,  my  dear.  Why  do  you  come  here  to- 
night, Mavis?” 

44  You  forge.t.  It  is  the  usual  time.  I am  not  here  be- 
fore my  time.  Business  at  Boston.’'’ 

44  Oh!  I thought  you  understood  at  the  end  of  last  July 
that  I had  given  up  that  job.  No  more  business  at  Bos- 
ton for  me,  Mavis — and  no  more  business  with  you.  ” 

Mavis  took  one  step  into  the  room. 

44 1 don’t  think,  sir,”  he  said,  becoming  the  man-servant 
again,  44  that  I rightly  understand.  You  are  never  going 
to  give  up  that  business  in  Boston.  You  can’t  do  it,  sir — 
excuse  my  speaking  before  your  good  lady,  but  you  can’t 
do  it.  To-night  the  job  must  be  begun.  Think  of  that 
night  aboard  ship.  Think  of  last  J uly  only — there  was  a 
job!” 

44  It  was,  Mavis,  a devil  of  a job.  Well,  I now  speak 
quite  plainly.  The  cottage  is  held  by  a yearly  tenancy— I 
shall  not  renew  it.  Your  service  can  be  determined  at  a 
month’s  notice.  Take  that  notice.  There  will  then  be  three 
months’  wages  due  to  you.”  He  got  up,  took  his  check- 
book from  a drawer,  and  wrote  a check.  44  There  they 
are.  You  can  go.  I dismiss  you.” 

44  After  five  years’  faithful  service?  It’s  hard — ” Mavis 
began. 

44  Don’t  whimper.  Mavis.  You’ve  had  out  of  me  dur- 
ing the  last  three  years  the  best  part  of  a thousand  pounds. 
I drew  a thousand  pounds  when  I came  to  live  here.  I 
have  kept  myself  and  my  house  on  my  earnings.  You’ve 


THE  DEMONIAC, 


had  that  thousand  pounds.  Come  now — it’s  three  hun- 
dred a year.  You  must  have  saved  a hundred  and  fifty 
a year  at  least  out  of  that.  And  then  there’s  that 
check  of  five  thousand  pounds — a good  lump  sum,  Mavis 
— d,oes  you  credit — that  you  got  out  of  me  at  a certain 
critical  moment  when  1 did  not  know  what  1 was  doing, 
yet  could  do  what  1 was  told  to  do.  That  was  a great 
stroke,  Mavis.  That  does  you  great  credit.” 

“ You  gave  it  to  me  of  your  own  free  will — I’ll  swear 
you  did.” 

“ You  may  swear  if  you  please.  1 suppose  I gave  you 
that  second  check  of  five  thousand  pounds  as  well— the  one 
you  lost,  1 mean.  Now,  Mavis,  there  was  a third  person 
present  on  that  occasion  who  looked  on  and  overheard 
everything — a person  in  the  garden,  and  the  window  was 
open — well,  have  you  got  anything  more  to  say?” 

Mavis  turned  to  go.  He  had  nothing  more  to  say. 

“ Stay,  Mavis.  I am  curious  to  know  what  you  propose 
to  do.  You  have  got,  I take  it,  during  these  five  years 
something  like  six  or  seven  thousand  pounds  quietly  put 
by.”  Mavis  smiled.  “ What  are  you  going  to  do?” 

“ I shall  go  back  to  Cambridge.” 

“ Not  to  be  a gyp  again?” 

“ No,  sir.  1 did  intend  going  back  before,  but  I was 
anxious  about  that  second  check  which  you  really  did  give 
me,  but  took  it  away  again.  I shall  go  back  to  Cambridge 
and  shall  do  a little  money-lending.  The  gentlemen  are 
not  what  they  were,  neither  for  drink  nor  for  betting  and 
gambling.  But  there’s  still  money  to  be  made,  and  I’m  a 
prudent  man,  sir,  as  you  could  testify.” 

44 1 could  indeed.  Farewell,  Mavis.  ” 

“I  would  only  wish  to  say,  sir,  that  if  on  any  future 
occasion — say  to-night,  to-morrow  night — you  want  me 
you  have  only  to  send  for  me.  I bear  no  grudge,  sir,  for 
your  changing  your  mind  about  the  second  check,  and  it 
was  a good  lump  for  gratitude,  wasn’t  it?  I’ll  come 


192 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


whenever  you  send  for  me.  And  I can  stay  as  long  as 
you  like.  On  the  old  terms.” 

He  was  gone.  The  wife  breathed  again. 

George  filled  and  lighted  a pipe,  which  he  worked 
through  without  a word.  Then  he  spoke.  46  There  were 
once,  my  dear,”  he  began,  44  two  boys  at  school.  One 
was  a bully  and  the  other  a coward.  The  bully  licked  the 
coward  once  a week.  After  a year  or  two  the  coward 
began  to  feel  ashamed.  One  day  he  stood  up  to  the  bully 
and  licked  Mm.  A week  later  the  bully  came  back  and 
offered  battle  once  more.  I shall  now,  my  dear,  go  up- 
stairs and  have  it  out  with  that  bully.” 

At  two  o’clock  in  the  morning  he  started  from  his  sleep 
panting,  gasping,  rolling  his  shoulders. 

His  wife,  who  watched  beside  him,  caught  his  hand. 
4C  George!”  she  cried,  44  George!  1 am  here.  Rouse  your- 
self. Remember.” 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  her.  44  Take  my  hand,”  he 
murmured.  44  The  devil  has  come  again.” 

Why,  this  battle  was  over  in  a quarter  of  an  hour.  It 
was  nothing  compared  with  the  long  and  doubtful  combat 
of  that  second  night. 

44  It  is  gone,  my  dear,”  he  said.  44  Give  me  a glass  of 
water.  Thank  God  ! I have  got  the  mastery  at  last.” 

He  lay  back  and  fell  asleep  instantly. 

There  remained  the  second  attack.  Again  George  went 
out  for  a long  walk.  Again  he  came  home  tired.  44 1 
ought  to  sleep  well  to-night,”  he  said,  cheerfully.  He  was 
in  the  best  of  spirits  and  full  of  courage.  He  expected  no 
further  trouble  at  all. 

At  nine  o’clock  he  took  a pipe.  Nettie,  exhausted  with 
yesternight’s  watching,  began  to  fall  asleep  in  her  chair. 
He  persuaded  her  to  go  to  bed,  promising  to  awaken  her  if 
he  was  roused  by  the  old  symptoms.  Alas!  she  obeyed. 
She  left  him  alone.  Many  mistakes  had  been  committed 
in  the  management  of  this  case,  none  so  fatal  as  the  last. 


THE  DEMONIAC. 


193 


He  presently  laid  down  his  pipe.  His  eyes  drooped.  He 
too  fell  asleep.  It  was  then  only  nine.  He  slept  peace- 
fully in  his  chair  till  past  eleven. 

Then  he  awoke  with  a start  and  sprung  to  his  feet. 
Once  more  the  old  overwhelming  wave  of  a longing,  yearn- 
ing, irresistible  thirst  seized  him.  As  of  old,  he  resisted 
no  longer. 

He  reeled  out  of  the  room,  panting;  he  seized  his  hat, 
threw  open  the  door,  and  ran  down  the  steps.  At  the 
garden  gate  stood  Mavis  — faithful  creature  — waiting. 
Was  he,  then,  a prophet? 

44  I expected  you,”  he  said.  44  Come,  it  will  take  us  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  and  more.  Why  didn’t  you  come  yes- 
terday?” 

64  You  are  the  devil  himself,”  said  George. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  first  force  of  the  attack  had  been 
met  in  the  usual  manner.  For  awhile  it  was  spent. 
George  sat  in  the  old  place,  in  the  arm-chair  at  the  head 
of  the  table  in  the  dingy  room,  the  bottles  before  him. 
He  looked  around  him. 

Suddenly  he  remembered.  He  thought  of  Nettie  and 
the  children.  He  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands.  He  was 
as  yet  only  at  the  beginning  of  a great  surrender.  He. was 
still  sober,  even  though  he  had  surrendered.  At  such  a 
time  half  a bottle  of  ardent  drink  hardly  counts. 

44 1 have  half  an  hour  to  spare,”  he  said,  44  before  it 
comes  again.  Perhaps  less.  Well,  I must  be  quick.” 

He  drew  out  his  pocket-book  and  found  a post-card. 
He  wrote  a few  lines  on  it  and  addressed  it.  Then  he  rose 
and  put  on  his  hat. 

44 1 am  going  to  post  this  note,”  he  said. 

44  Let  me  post  it  for  you,  sir,”  said  Mavis,  respectfully. 

44  No;  go  on  mixing  the  drink.” 

He  went  out.  At  the  head  of  the  lane  he  knew  there 
was  a pillar  post*  He  walked  up  the  lane  and  dropped  his 
post-card. 


7 


THE  DEM  OKI  AC. 


i\  \ia  V 

J94  f 

44  There,”  he  murmured,  44  the  thing  is  as  good  as 
done.”  He  turned  and  walked  back.  But  when  he 
reached  the  gate  he  stopped. 

“ Devil!”  he  said,  44 1 am  going  to  cheat  you  at  last.  ” 

The  lane  continues  eastward  a little  when  it  reaches  the 
river  Lea,  which  is  here  crossed  by  one  of  the  many  bridges 
which  span  it  on  its  southward  course. 

He  leaned  over  the  bridge  and  looked  at  the  water. 

44 1 knew  all  along,”  he  said,  44  that  the  devil  would  be 
too  cunning.  For  Nettie's  sake  — lor  the  children's 
sake — ” He  climbed  over  the  bridge  leisurely.  Again  he 
looked  down  into  the  dark  water.  His  throat  began  to 
burn.  It  was  the  beginning  of  the  next  attack.  He 
laughed.  44  You  are  too  late,  devil,”  he  said.  44  Five 
minutes  ago — now  you  are  too  late.”  He  dropped  into 
the  water. 

When  John  Oarew  came  out  of  his  bedroom,  he  found 
on  the  top  of  his  letters  a post-card  with  a note  in  pencil: 

“The  Cottage,  Midnight. 

44  The  devil  has  proved  too  strong,  after  all.  For  Net- 
tie's sake  I shall  put  an  end  to  the  whole  business  imme- 
diately. I am  going  to  drop  off  the  High  Bridge  into  the 
river  Lea,  where  you  will  find  me,  I dare  say,  if  you  look. 
Ask  Elinor  for  my  sake  to  be  kind  to  Nettie  and  the  chil- 
dren. 

4 4 George.” 

Nettie  was  wandering  about  the  house.  She  could  not 
sit  still.  She  could  not  settle  to  anything. 

She  had  slept  all  through  the  night  until  eight  in  the 
morning.  Then  she  awoke  to  find  that  George  was  already 
up  and  dressed.  That  did  not  alarm  her  much  at  first. 
But  she  discovered  that  his  night  things  were  still  lying  in 
their  place,  neatly  folded,  and  that  his  pillow  showed  no 
marks  of  pressure  upon  it.  She  hurried  down -stairs.  He 


THE  DEMONIAC.  195 

was  not  there.  He  had  not  gone  to  bed  at  all.  He  was 
gone  out. 

Strange!  Perhaps  he  had  had  a hard  night,  but  he 
promised  to  waken  her — perhaps  he  had  only  gone  out  for 
a walk.  He  would  come  home  to  breakfast.  But  he  did 
not.  Then  her  mind  began  to  be  filled  with  vague  misgiv- 
ings, and  then  with  anxieties,  and  then  with  terrors. 

About  twelve  o’clock  a carriage  drew  up  before  the  door, 
and  Nettie  saw  John  Oarew  and  a lady  get  out  of  it,  and 
observed  that  their  faces  were  grave  and  that  the  lady  was 
weeping.  Then  Nettie’s  face  became  white  and  her  heart 
stood  still. 

“John  Carew!”  she  cried,  springing  to  meet  him, 
“ where  is  George?  Where  is  George?” 

John  Carew  took  her  by  both  hands.  “ Nettie,”  he 
said,  “ Nettie,  my  dear  old  friend — ” but  here  he  broke 
down.  His  voice  turned  into  a sob,  his  eyes  overflowed. 
“ Tell  her,  Elinor,”  he  said;  “ 1 can  not.”  He  left  the 
room  and  shut  the  door. 

In  the  evening  the  Patager  family  were  gathered  to- 
gether, solemn,  awed,  and  yet  important. 

“ There  will  be  an  inquest,”  said  the  father.  “ He  fell 
over  accidentally,  1 suppose.  He  will  be  buried  in  his  own 
church — his  own  church— near  the  family  mansion — near 
the  family  mansion — the  mansion.  It  will  be  in  all  the 
papers.  They  will  question  me  in  the  city  about  my  rich 
son-in-law.” 

“ The  young  lady  has  carried  off  Nettie  and  the  chil- 
dren,” said  Victoria.  “Poor  Nettie!  she  doesn’t  even 
know  what  is  said  to  her.  She  looks  stupid.  But,”  she 
sighed,  “ seven  thousand  pounds  a year!  It  is — oh,  seven 
thousand  pounds  a year!  At  such  a time  as  this  it  is  im- 
possible to  speak  of  money.  All  our  thoughts  are  of 
mourning.  But — oh,  seven  thousand  pounds  a year!” 


THE  END. 


•'?/(!!:  1 1 

U'i:i.UI  :;(i 
/ i:  / ■ v 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  HIE 
jflN  2 8 1933 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILUNm 


